EM1L    FRIEND 


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Beaupassant  had  remained  considerately  silent  —  he  noticed  Laura 
was  absorbed  in  observation."— Page  275, 


MASKS 


A  NOVEL 

BY 

EMIL  FRIEND. 


CHICAGO,  ILL. 

GEO.  W.  OGILVIE  &  CO.,  Publishers 
1905 


COPYRIGHT  1905  sr   GEO.  W.   OGILVIB. 


MAS  KB 


CHAPTER  I. 

THEY  MEET. 

"If  you  were  not  a  teacher  what  would  you  like 
to  be?"' 

Ross,  the  hotel  manager  was  passing.  He  heard  the 
question,  and  before  the  Jewess  could  answer,  inter- 
jected :  ' '  Married. ' ' 

"And  then  you  would  pursue  me  as  you  do  all 
married  women,"  was  the  quick  retort  flung  from  the 
nervous  mouth  at  the  big  fellow  whose  cynical  leer 
changed  to  a  scowl.  When  he  was  out  of  hearing 
the  dark,  wiry  woman  spoke  earnestly:  "I  should  like 
to  be  an  actress.  The  theatre  is  the  place  for  bright 
women.  If  I  had  your  figure— your  presence— and  my 
ambition  I'd  be  on  the  stage.  For  awhile  it  is  hard 
work,  but  the  rewards  are  immense  for  a  clever  person. 
A  beautiful  woman  who  can  a«t  never  so  little  can  com- 
mand almost  any  salary.  She  is  somebody,  too.  She 
isn't  buried  like  the  rest  of  us  among  the  common 
heap." 

Her  running  thoughts  uncovered  a  poignant  wish 
that,  plainly,  had  not  been  deeply  buried,  and  the  desire 
impossible  of  attainment  was  shown  by  a  drawn  face 
which  changed  to  positive  ugliness  as  she  made  the 
transition  to  her  own  employment: 

"Oh,  how  I  hate  teaching!  It  has  taught  me  to 
loathe  children.  I  sometimes  fear  the  thing  will  drive 
me  mad.  If  it  were  not  for  the  two  months'  vacation 
which  I  spend  abroad  I  think  I'd  be  driven  to  suicide. 


2135591 


8  THEY  MEET. 

But  what  am  I  to  do?  My  folks  are  poor  and  I  can't 
do  anything  at  the  theatre— my  appearance  is  against 
me." 

Laura  professed  not  to  agree  with  the  severe  self- 
criticism.  She  urged  (that  Miss  Rosenau  had  a  strong 
face  and  that  a  petite  form — 

The  Jewess  interrupted  savagely:  "I  tried  several 
times,  but  they  wouldn't  have  me.  I  took  instructions 
from  Clarence  Protony  at  the  Conservatory  for  six 
months.  I  went  every  afternoon  after  school  hours. 
He  assured  me  that  I  was  full  of  talent  and  would 
make  a  big  hit ;  but  after  Carl  Gars— who  is  the  whole 
thing  in  the  theatrical  world— told  me  that  I  was  noth- 
ing but  a  bundle  of  bones  I  stopped  trying.  And  that 
was  my  reward  after  four  weeks  of  persistent  trying 
to  see  him— nothing  but  'a  bundle  of  bones'." 

She  stopped  and  there  was  an  embarrassing  pause 
for  Laura,  who  feared  it  were  useless  even  by  way  of 
courtesy  to  contradict  the  judgment  of  the  influential 
manager.  Miss  Rosenau  surveyed  Laura  with  an  envi- 
ous look:  "If  I  had  your  face  and  figure  I  could  get 
an  engagement  in  a  minute.  But  that 's  just  it ;  people 
who  have  all  the  qualifications  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  stage." 

With  a  carelessness  which  was  not  a  reflex  of  her 
deep  interest  Laura  asked : 

"Who  did  you  say  was  your  instructor?" 

"Clarence  Protony.  He's  at  the  Illinois  Conserva- 
tory. It's  really  a  musical  college  founded  by  Max 
Blumenthal;  but  Protony  has  built  up  the  dramatic 
department  to  some  importance.  His  class  gives  a  per- 
formance in  the  afternoon,  once  a  month  at  one  of  the 
theatres.  The  newspapers  write  it  up.  Phelon  of 
The  Forum  and  Burrows  of  The  Interior  gave  me  splen- 
did notices.  I'll  show  them  to  you  some  day.  I've 
preserved  every  one  of  them." 

This  talk  implanted  an  intention  in  Laura,  but  of 
which  she  gave  no  hint  to  Rebecca  Rosenau  at  the  time. 
She  would  go  about  the  matter  quietly  without  consult- 
ing anybody  in  the  hotel,  an  independent  resolve  that 
was  sustained  within  an  hour  by  the  receipt  of  a  check 


THEY  MEET.  9 

from  Ralph  Darnby  together  with  a  penciled  line 
reading:  "I'm  broke,  but  I  borrowed  this  to  help  you 
along.  May  not  be  able  to  do  anything  for  you  again." 
There  was  a  considerable  surplus  after  she  had  paid  the 
hotel  bill.  Her  gratification  in  paying  the  debt  was 
increased  by  Ross  being  present.  He  seemed  displeased 
rather  than  pleased  when  she  asked  the  amount  against 
her.  The  genuine  convenience  of  having  money  im- 
pressed itself  forcibly  upon  her  at  that  moment  and  she 
was  determined  to  have  money,  without  which,  she  per- 
ceived, dignity  and  independence  were  impossible. 

Next  day,  with  no  thought  of  fame,  no  artistic  im- 
pulse, Laura  stood  before  a  double-door  entrance,  high, 
broad,  with  letters  imposingly  large,  announcing: 
"Illinois  Conservatory."  She  entered  and  found  her- 
self in  a  reception  room  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a 
small,  round  transparent  compartment  labeled  "Cash- 
ier," enclosing  a  pretty  girl  of  Irish  beauty,  with  a 
large  ledger  on  one  side  of  her  and  a  huge  cash  box 
on  the  other,  both  conspicuously  employed.  Chairs  in 
every  variety  were  scattered  about  with  a  carefully 
studied  carelessness.  In  the  center,  a  long,  narrow 
table  littered  with  periodicals  devoted  to  music  and 
the  drama. 

"Mr.  Protony, "  said  Laura  simply. 

The  pretty  Irish  girl  touched  a  button.  She  did  it 
mechanically,  as  one  who  poses  an  empty  question 
without  expecting  an  answer.  After  a  time— that 
seemed  to  be  fixed  in  her  mind— she  descended  from 
the  stool  and  in  a  routine  way  went  to  one  of  the  numer- 
ous doors. 

' '  As  soon  as  you  are  at  leisure,  Mr.  Protony. ' '  Her 
voice  sounded  like  a  mechanical  doll. 

Laura  understood  that  the  girl  was  her  own  mana- 
ger and  that  she  had  touched  the  unconnected  buttons 
to  impress  visitors  and  prospective  pupils. 

Apparently  Mr.  Protony  was  very  busy.  He  did  not 
show  himself  for  some  time  and  when  he  appeared 
Laura  was  disappointed.  She  had  pictured  to  herself 
a  tall,  distinguished  gentleman  of  commanding  mien, 
and  saw  a  small  man  of  slight  stature,  but  straight  and 


10  THEY  MEET. 

well-knit;  the  head  of  intelligent  form,  admirably 
poised,  which  was,  however,  qualified  by  an  anxious 
face  with  deep  furrows  on  either  side  of  the  mouth; 
the  eyes  were  protean  green,  restive;  the  complexion 
like  the  hair,  dull  ecru.  He  advanced  toward  Laura 
and  bowed  gracefully.  "I'm  Clarence  Protony." 
Though  the  accent  was  neat,  the  enunciation  pellucid 
and  the  register  low,  the  tone  was  thin  and,  like  his 
hair  and  complexion,  dull  ecru. 

Laura  was  direct.  "I  want  to  qualify  myself  for 
the  stage,  Mr.  Protony." 

He  again  took  her  in.  Her  directness  was  unusual 
in  his  experience  and  the  use  of  the  verb  "qualify" 
arrested  him.  Her  beauty  was  a  subordinate  consid- 
eration— his  eyes  long  had  been  satiated  with  that 
satiating  quality. 

"May  I  ask  you  to  step  in  here,  Miss- 
He  stopped  and  Laura  finished:    "Mrs.  Dranby." 
She  emphasized  "Mistress"— which,  to  be  sure,  was 
pronounced  "Misses." 

They  entered  a  narrow,  exiguous  room  which  two 
chairs  and  an  escritoire  almost  filled.  The  walls  were 
dotted  with  magazine  and  newspaper  cuts  of  actors 
and  playwrights.  The  escritoire  was  near  a  window 
and  the  visitor's  chair  faced  the  light — a  daylight  glare 
that  defined  Laura's  face  pronouncedly  to  Protony, 
who  scrutinized  her  closely  before  he  asked :  ' '  Have 
you  decided  what  line  you  wish  to  take  up — comedy 
or  tragedy?" 

"No,  sir;  I  have  no  choice." 

"Mrs.  Darnby,  it  is  necessary— for  your  advantage 
—to  be  confiding,  and  I  hope  you  will  accept  my  ques- 
tions in  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  asked — it  will 
expedite  matters  and  it  will  enable  me  to  outline  your 
course  readily."  He  said  it  abstractedly  as  one  who  re- 
peats a  formula.  With  more  interest  he  continued : 
"What  has  prompted  you  to  the  stage?  Is  it  a  love  of 
the  art?  Or  do  you  wish  to  distinguish  yourself  in 
some  way?  Are  you  sure  it  isn't  vanity  which  brings 
you  here?  Are  you  leading  a  humdrum  life  that  you 
can  no  longer  endure," 


THEY  MEET.  11 

His  tone  was  now  soft,  caressing,  ingratiating  even, 
and  for  the  first  time  he  met  her  eye  frankly. 

"It  is  neither  inspiration  nor  vanity  that  brings  me 
here;  it  is  a  wish  to  be  independent,  to  earn  a  liveli- 
hood." 

Protony  divined,  but  he  asked :  ' '  Then  you  are  not 
a  widow,  Mrs.  Darnby?" 

She  briefly  answered  "No." 

He  turned  to  his  desk  with:  "Excuse  me,"  and 
was  busy  for  a  moment  or  two  making  notations.  Then 
he  got  her  name  in  full  and  her  residence,  concluding: 
' '  Have  you  read  or  seen  many  plays  ? ' ' 

"Very  few." 

"How  fortunate!  You  will  have  nothing  to  un- 
learn. ' '  His  smile  was  veiled. 

"It  is  evident,"  he  added  a  moment  later,  "that 
you  have  a  good  education." 

"Well,  I  have  a  knowledge  of  varicus  things  with- 
out being  learned." 

"An  education  is  not  an  insurmountable  disadvant- 
age in  dramatic  art. ' '  A  shadow  of  a  smile  again  flitted 
across  his  deadly  earnest  countenance.  He  rose,  a  sign 
that  the  necessary  preliminaries  had  ended.  In  open- 
ing the  door  he  added  in  an  after-thought  way:  "Our 
terms  are  twenty-five  dollars  for  thirty  lessons,  taken 
in  class.  Private  lessons  are  one  dollar  each.  Which 
would  you  prefer,  Mrs.  Darnby?" 

Fearing  that  the  choice  of  a  term  would  exact  an 
immediate  payment  in  full,  she  ohose  private  instruc- 
tion. 

He  stopped  (he  expected,  surely,  she  would  elect 
for  class  study),  hesitated,  swept  her  with  his  multi- 
green  eyes;  then,  as  if  he  had  decided  something  of 
importance,  stepped  back  to  the  desk  and  returned  with 
a  small,  thin,  paper-covered  book. 

"Take  this,  Mrs.  Darnby.  It  is  a  one-act  play. 
Read  it  carefully,  and  pay  particular  attention  to  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Ralston.  Come  next  Saturday." 

The  piece  had  for  title  "Household  Spirits,"  writ- 
ten bv  Robert  Ringold.  There  were  four  characters: 
A  husoand  and  a  wife,  an  intriguer  and  an  old  servant. 


12  THEY  MEET. 

The  scene— there  was  but  one — a  dining  hall  prepared 
for  an  elaborate  banquet.  The  wife  in  a  sumptuous 
reception  gown  is  waiting  the  arrival  of  guests.  The 
husband,  morose,  is  seated.  She  warns  him  not  to 
smoke,  not  to  disarrange  the  napkins  and  unwittingly 
nags  him  to  severe  protestations.  Although  married 
four  months,  he  complains,  they  have  not  yet  enjoyed 
an  evening  in  seclusion. — "Company!  Company! 
Always  company!" — in  their  home  or  others'  homes. 
A  tilt  ensues.  He  goes  to  the  smoking  room  and  while 
there  the  intriguer  appears.  The  latter  has  been  away 
—he  is  still  in  traveling  costume— and  before  going 
to  his  home  must  pay  his  respects  to  the  lady  he  adores 
— as  he  protests.  Hearing  that  an  invitation  is  awaiting 
him  he  hurries  to  his  chamber  to  throw  himself  into 
the  regulation  evening  dress.  Gone,  the  husband  reap- 
pears. The  talk  turns  on  the  intriguer,  whose  life, 
the  wife  learns,  was  once  saved  by  her  husband.  This 
disclosure  of  the  intriguer's  character  dismays  her 
and  dismay  is  followed  by  contrition.  The  while  not 
a  carriage  has  drawn  up  to  the  canopy.  It  is  now  late ; 
there  must  be  something  amiss.  The  butler  is  called— 
and  the  invitations  are  found  in  his  pocket;  he  forgot 
to  post  them.  The  couple  are  delighted.  They  will 
dine  and  dance  alone.  The  orchestra  is  told  off  to  the 
platform,  the  porter  is  instructed  not  to  admit  the 
intriguer,  and  to  the  seductive  tones  of  a  Waldteufel 
waltz  the  curtain  is  leisurely  lowered  with  wife  and 
husband  whirling  at  the  entrance  of  the  ball  room. 

Laura,  at  the  end  of  the  reading,  was  quite  certain 
she  had  a  complete  picture  of  Mrs.  Ralston,  the  wife. 
She  memorized  the  lines  with  facility;  her  studies  at 
the  seminary  had  disciplined  a  naturally  receptive 
mind — had  schooled  a  retentive  memory.  She  strove 
to  become  an  intimate  of  the  high-bred  society  woman. 
In  fancy,  she  saw  her  nervous  yet  graceful  carriage, 
heard  her  cultivated  voice  which,  in  moments  of  tem- 
per, rose  to  a  rather  strident  key.  But  she  perceived, 
the  next  Saturday,  how  difficult  it  was  to  suit  action 
to  her  conception.  It  became  patent  to  her  that  act- 
ing, like  language,  has  a  grammar  which  must  be  mas- 


THEY  MEET.  13 

tered  by  those  who  would  be  proficient.  Protony, 
with  his  hard,  immobile  face,  illustrated  every  tone, 
every  movement  of  Mrs.  Ralston  unerringly.  With  in- 
finite delicacy  he  showed  Laura  how  stilted,  how  awk- 
ward her  gestures  really  were.  Her  popular  pronun- 
ciation of  such  words  as  supple,  novel,  interested,  cir- 
cumstances, incomparable  he  corrected  as  if  involun- 
tarily, with  fine  tact,  as  though  it  were  infinitesimally 
casual  to  the  general  instructions;  and  her  quick  ear 
caught  the  refined  distinctions.  In  the  first  lesson 
Laura  learned  how  much  there  was  to  be  learned;  in 
the  third,  how  to  learn ;  in  the  fifth,  how  to  practice  the 
knowledge  acquired. 

And  Protony 's  interest  in  her  seemingly  enhanced 
with  succeeding  lessons,  which  he  prolonged  beyond  the 
customary  time.  Again  and  again— but  always  tenta- 
tively and  with  finesse— he  touched  on  personal  mat- 
ters. His  discreet  interrogations  drew  Laura,  imper- 
ceptibly to  herself.  He  soon  had  her  brief  and  unhappy 
history.  But  in  taking  from  her  he  gave  something  of 
himself.  Primarily  imparting  shreds  of  personalities 
to  gain  them  from  her,  he  assumed  the  implied  atti- 
tude of  encouraging  Laura  to  gratify  her  curiosity 
about  himself.  Thus  she  found  he  had  quarreled  with 
Archer  Doyle,  the  autocratic  manager  of  a  highly 
exclusive  stock  company  in  New  York;  had  become 
dissatisfied  with  and  finally  discouraged  by  the  insig- 
nificant parts  allotted  to  him.  Although  he  could  not 
conceive  of  a  life  other  than  that  of  the  theatre,  his 
ambition  rose  above  the  minutiae  of  the  actor.  He 
would  be  a  maker  of  plays  if  that  would  further  him 
to  his  supreme  goal,  manager  of  a  theatre.  To  be  an 
Aroher  Doyle,  to  own  a  theatre,  to  produce  plays,  to 
have  a  superb  company— these  things  absolutely  com- 
pleted his  horizon.  With  a  woman's  imagination — 
quickly  ignited  and  which  takes  no  account  of  difficul- 
ties—she asked  why,  then,  did  he  not  do  as  he  wished? 
He  confessed,  confidentially,  that  he  had  formulated 
plans  to  that  end.  "My  monthly  matinees  are  attract- 
ing attention.  The  critics  are  all  with  me.  I  have 
indicated  with  my  pupils  what  I  may  do  with  a  stock 


14  THEY  MEET. 

company.  I  have  selected  the  site  for  my  future 
theatre.  I  have  made  a  list  of  the  actors  and  actresses 
I  shall  engage;  they  are  nearly  all  young— people 
whom  I  can  mold  to  my  ideas.  I  even  have  in  mind 
the  first  play  I  shall  produce.  All  is  ready  but  the 
capital,  and  that  I  shall  get  when  I'm  ready  to  take 
subscriptions.  But  I  must  work  cautiously  and 
quietly.  Koening,  the  head  of  this  institution,  also 
has  ambitions.  He's  watching  me;  he's  envious  of 
me." 

She  soon  knew  all  the  details  of  his  life.  To  him  it 
seemed  natural  to  make  a  confidante  of  her,  though 
she  had  shown  no  particular  sympathy  for  his  aims. 
He  interested  her  because  of  his  knowledge  of  the  pro- 
fession she  was  studying  and  she  accepted  his  friend- 
ship and  confidences  in  a  neutral  mood.  He  might  be 
of  value  to  her  in  getting  an  engagement  with  a  good 
company.  She  admitted,  to  herself,  that  her  view  was 
selfish.  Not  that  there  was  anything  antipathetic 
about  him ;  indeed,  the  delicacy,  the  subtlety  of  his  mind 
were  admirable.  Laura  admired  his  refined  thoughts 
and  manners,  appreciated  his  genuine  appreciation  of 
things  aesthetic;  but  the  vitally  sympathetic  element 
which  instantly  attracts  some  women  to  men  Protony 
did  not  possess  for  Laura.  Perhaps  his  narrow  sub- 
jectivity, his  eager,  paramount  ambition  cancelled  the 
gracious  effects  of  his  artistic  temperament,  which, 
too,  seemed  more  effeminate  than  virile. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  saw  him  clearly,  much 
better  than  he  saw  her — marital  experience,  especially 
of  an  adverse  nature,  is  a  quickening  school  for  some 
women— and  her  thorough  ease  in  his  presence  pro- 
ceeded capitally  from  the  womanly  perception  that 
she  had  become  something  more  to  him  than  his  other 
attractive  pupils;  so  when,  one  day,  he  invited  her  to 
attend  a  Joseph  Jefferson  performance  she  was  entirely 
prepared  for  the  invitation  and  accepted  it.  He  was, 
of  course,  a  most  interesting  and  instructive  escort. 
His  criticism  of  the  work  of  Jefferson's  associates 
was  lucid  and  convincing ;  his  enthusiasm  over  the  aged 


THEY  MEET.  15 

comedian— who  appeared  in  old  school  comedy— was 
infections.  Laura  was  certain  Protony  was  born  for 
flie  theatre ;  but  she  did  not  know  then  to  what  division 
of  the  art— the  art  as  it  was  understood  years  ago 
—his  talents  were  applicable.  Later— and  not  much 
later— she  comprehended  that  he  had  a  grace  beyond 
the  coarser  understanding  of  the  theatre  of  the  day; 
that  h£  was  too  intellectual  to  succeed  as  an  actor; 
that  he  was  too  fine,  too  analytical,  too  imaginative, 
and,  above  all,  too  diffident  to  please  the  theatre-goer 
\vith  a  play;  that  to  manage  a  play-house  successfully 
*he  lacked  mob  instinct,  lacked  stern  determination, 
coarse  commercial  traits. 

Protony  emerged  from  the  stuffy  hcraae,  surcharged 
with  ideas  generated  by  the  performance.  To  the  sta- 
tion and  in  the  train  it  was  a  rich  flow  of  justly  phrased 
comments.  The  minutest  detail  had  not  escaped  him 
—he  was  shocked  at  a  stage  management  which  had 
not  instructed  a  footman  to  take  a  cane  from  a  fashion- 
able character.  Not  until  they  oame  to  the  hotel  door 
did  his  critical  observations  cease. 

•Nearing  the  door  She  was  surprised  to  see,  by  the 
glow  on  the  transom,  that  there  was  a  light  in  her  room. 
Without  inserting  the  key  in  the  lock  she  turned  the 
knob  and  found  Darnby  jauntily  seated  in  a  rocking 
chair,  a  newspaper  in  hand  and  a  cigar  in  mouth.  He 
lowered  the  journal  flippantly,  and  after  an  insolent 
puff,  greeted  her  with  "It's  a  wonder  he  wouldn't 
carry  a  comb  with  him ;  your  hair  looks  as  though  you 
parted  in  a  hurry." 

She  was  taken  back  at  sight  of  him— having  thought 
he  had  done  with  her — but  her  surprise  quickly  made 
way  for  indignation  which  at  once  rose  to  hot  anger, 
and  in  her  heated  temper  a  comparison  flashed  between 
the  man  who  had  just  left  her  and  the  fellow  who  had 
just  insulted  her,  and  it  inspired  her  to  a  diabolical 
retort:  .  . 

•"Well,  what  of  it?  You  are  low  enough  not  to  mind, 
you  know." 

He  looked  at  her  amazed,  astonished,  at  her  spirit, 
the  full  purport  of  the  insult  dawning  upon  him  slowly. 


16  THEY  MEET. 

For  several  minutes  nothing  was  said.  Laura  leisurely 
removed  her  hat  and  wrap  and  Darnby  looked  at  the 
floor.  The  impatience  and  irritation  provoked  by  his 
long  wait  for  her  turned  to  an  animosity,  the  more 
dangerous  because  of  its  silence. 

"With  whom  were  you?  '  The  question  was  put 
sullenly,  mandatorily.  She  had  mistaken  his  mood 
and  supposed  her  reply  had  subdued  him.  The  tone 
of  his  question  had  incited  her  further. 

' '  None  of  your  business. ' ' 

"It  isn't,  eh?"  He  got  up.  His  face  had  changed 
from  an  expression  of  sullen  indifference  to  brutal 
viciousness.  Instinctively  she  made  for  the  door  and 
received  a  blow  at  the  side  of  her  neck.  A  scream 
from  her  arrested  the  second  lunge  which  he  was  about 
to  make.  The  cry  shamed  him  to  the  thought  of  ex- 
posure, although  he  was  heedless  of  her,  who  had  leaped 
into  the  corridor,  and,  more  dazed  by  the  cowardice  and 
brutality  of  the  deed  than  by  the  effect  of  it,  was  fairly 
stumbling  down  the  stairs  toward  the  office— too  lost  to 
self-possession  to  think  of  the  lift.  Touseled,  confused, 
breathless,  trembling,  she  stood  before  the  night  clerk, 
who  anxiously  asked:  "What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Darn- 
by?  Are  you  ill?" 

"No — no— I — I'm  frightened.  My  hus — Mr.  Darnby 
is  intoxicated."  She  had  enough  presence  of  mind 
to  correct  herself  in  calling  Darnby  husband  and  to 
conceal  the  reason  of  her  panic-stricken  state.  The 
clerk,  experienced  in  all  the  accidents  and  incidents 
of  hotel  life,  was  prompt  with  the  suggestion:  "I  can 
give  you  a  room  on  the  parlor  floor. ' ' 

"Yes,  yes;  thank  you." 


CHAPTER  H. 

THE  ALLIANCE. 

Sleep  for  a  time  was  out  of  question.  She  tossed 
from  side  to  side,  her  body  feverish,  her  head  a  caldron 
of  seething,  disjointed  thoughts.  Gradually  her  nerves 
were  stilled.  Then  she  wept. 

Her  tears  exhausted,  reflection  was  possible— reflec- 
tion of  a  reminiscent  character.  She  thought  of  home ; 
of  the  box-formed  house  near  the  seminary  in  the  Mis- 
souri town;  of  the  angular,  brown-faced,  set-mouthed 
mother ;  of  the  large,  heavy  father  from  whose  counte- 
nance adversity  had  not  entirely  evicted  manly  beauty, 
though  it  had  stooped  the  shoulders  pronouncedly 
and  had  shrouded  his  personality  with  an  air  of  sad 
defeat;  the  father  who  had  insulted  Ralph  Darn  by 
when  that  covert  gamester  had  presented  himself 
as  a  prospective  son-in-law.  She  thought  of  the  tacit 
consent  of  her  mother,  who  had  been  won  by  Darnby  's 
engaging  manner,  impressed  by  a  name  synonymous 
with  wealth  and  social  distinction,  and  who  did  not 
understand  that  while  all  men  seared  by  immorality 
may  lead  or  follow  their  kind  in  day-to-day  life,  the 
more  part  of  such  men  will  hesitate  to  welcome  their 
kind  as  kin— what  though  Darnby  had  befriended  the 
ex-merchant  (ruined  through  speculation)  by  indicat- 
ing the  lucky  stable  and  by  loans.  She,  Laura,  a  sem- 
inary girl,  knew  nothing  of  Darnby 's  character  at  the 
time.  She  had  been  fascinated  by  the  handsomely 
molded,  black-haired,  dark-eyed  fellow;  had  been  in- 
duced to  elope  with  him  who  was  determined  upon  hav- 
ing her  as  much — perhaps  more — by  the  father's  deadly 
opposition  as  by  the  round  bosom,  the  sinuous  waist, 

(17) 


18  THE  ALLIANCE. 

the  graceful  hips,  the  warm  mouth  with  its  rich  red 
lips  and  the  brown,  joyous  eyes  of  the  daughter. 

Laura's  first  intimation  of  his  character— the  first 
of  a  series  of  lost  illusions — were  the  days  immediately 
subsequent  to  the  hurriedly  performed  wedding  cere- 
mony in  Milwaukee.  Darnby  had  no  conception  of 
the  subtle  modesty,  the  infinite  delicacy  of  a  virgin 
soul,  and  in  wanting  the  mere  suggestion  of  that  under- 
standing which  proceeds  from  the  heart  even  more 
than  from  refinement  he  caused  the  young  creature 
to  suffer  an  unnamable  disillusion. 

From  Milwaukee  he  took  her  to  the  Lake  Side 
Hotel,  Chicago,  where  he  cynically  acknowledged  that 
he  had  been  disowned  by  the  Darnbys.  Though  she 
came  to  perceive  his  thoroughly  vitiated  character,  she 
had  not  been  wholly  unhappy.  To  her— the  country- 
girl — the  environments  were  interesting.  The  hotel 
was  situated  quite  at  the  extreme  south  end  of  the 
city;  a  pseudo-fashionable  pension,  on  a  huge  plan, 
for  well-paid  employees  and  prosperous  tradesmen. 
No  transients  registered  there  save  when  yellow  fever 
became  dangerously  contagious  in  the  Southern  states. 
Then  the  Southerners  would  besiege  the  manager  for 
south  front  rooms,  on  the  second  floor.  These  sociable 
and  loquacious  people  would  remain  until  the  frost  had 
extirpated  the  disease  which  had  impelled  them  to 
flee  northward.  Otherwise,  the  Lake  Side  was  given 
over  wholly  to  "resident  guests,"  as  the  chief  clerk 
euphemistically  phrased  it.  The  colossal  barrack-like 
domicile  was  far  from  the  route  of  bagmen  and  travel- 
ers generally.  Excluding  the  suburban  service,  no 
trains  halted  near  there,  though  the  location  was  admir- 
able ;  acres  of  undulating  green,  studded  by  oak  trees,' 
the  spare  remains  of  a  forest;  and,  in  face,  a  wide, 
gravelled  promenade  leading  to  the  fresh  water  ocean, 
Lake  Michigan. 

The  prosperous  merchant  and  his  family  were 
domiciled  in  suites  of  five  and  seven  rooms.  Childless 
couples  of  short  or  long  terms  of  matrimony  were  con- 
tented or  discontented  in  two  or  three  chambers,  ac- 
cording to  the  means  or  pecuniary  disposition  of  the 


THE  ALLIANCE.  19 

husband.  Womenless  men— bachelors,  widowers  (grass 
or  genuine)  were  happy  or  miserable  in  one  bandbox, 
except  the  handsome,  middle-aged,  engaging  and  im- 
provident profligate  Doctor  Goodsell,  the  "house  phy- 
sician," who  managed  somehow  to  retain  three  finely 
appointed  rooms  throughout  an  incessant  confusion 
of  his  finances.  Menless  women— female  bachelors, 
divorcees,  authentic  and  spurious  widows— were  mostly 
told  off  each  in  one  room.  Here  and  there  two  shared 
an  apartment,  when  the  partnership  was  based  on  mu- 
tual despair  of  hopeless  spinsterhood,  or  on  the  horror 
of  nocturnal  loneliness  which  many  women  feel,  or 
— there  were  two  examples— on  the  ground  of  economy. 

The  compartments— including  the  inner  circle  of 
rooms— were  airy  and  sanitary,  for  the  huge  boarding- 
house  was  free  on  all  sides  from  neighborly  obstruc- 
tions. At  times  the  clatter  and  chatter — the  noisy 
gaiety — within  and  the  absolute  silence  without  sug- 
gested the  idea  of  being  on  board  ship.  The  proximity 
of  the  lake  heightened  the  illusion. 

Laura  made  friends  with  mothers  and  daughters 
readily;  they  recognized  in  her  the  sincere  amiability 
which  is  inseparable  from  innate  goodness.  Men  ad- 
mired her  instantly  and  for  various  reasons.  Women 
— wordly  women— either  treated  her  with  an  exag- 
gerated politeness  far  more  wounding  than  a  direct 
affront— that  implied  envy  of  her  beauty  and  disdain 
of  her  simplicity;  or  they  were  effusively  affectionate 
— Which  also  implied  envy  of  her  beauty  and  disdain 
of  her  simplicity.  A  few  acknowledged  her  presence 
with  preoccupied  indifference — indicating  more  than 
the  others  that  there  is  something  permanently  hostile 
in  the  female  nature  to  fresh  loveliness  at  its  first 
appearance. 

The  Darnbys  had  two  rooms  fronting  the  lake  on 
the  third  floor.  On  the  one  side  were  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Whitehead.  Mr.  Whitehead  was  a  professor  of  mathe- 
matics at  the  Chicago  University ;  a  mild,  slender,  unim- 
pressive man,  a  strange  contrast  to  his  large,  dark 
and  sanguineous  wife,  who  herself  was  a  physical  con- 
tradiction in  having  a  perfectly  shaped  head,  from 


20  THE  ALLIANCE. 

which  issued  a  soft,  refined  voice,  with  features  of 
classic  regularity,  connecting  a  form  gross  in  bulk 
and  proportion.  On  the  other  side  were  Miss  Carr  and 
Miss  Rosenau,  preceptresses. 

In  the  evening,  when  Darnby  was  in  the  card  room, 
Laura  spent  some  time  in  the  company  of  the  school 
teachers,  who  were  well  educated,  traveled  and  world- 
ly; at  ease  in  men's  society,  fond  of  the  theatre  and 
liberal  amusements,  yet,  withal,  sternly  circumspect 
in  morals  and  manners.  Men— young  and  old— sought 
the  privilege  of  making  one  of  a  circle  that  assembled 
in  these  women's  quarters,  where  there  was  a  mutual 
diversion  of  a  kind  not  too  vulgar.  For  Laura,  associa- 
tion with  the  couple  had  been  in  a  sense  educational. 
She  got  a  broader,  a  more  accurate  view  of  the  aver- 
age city  man  and  woman,  though  the  knowledge  had 
not  exactly  heightened  her  esteem  for  men.  She  had 
at  once  admired  and  feared  Mrs.  Whitehead,  who  was 
better  than  a  mediocre  musician,  was  an  enjoyable  con- 
versationalist, and  who,  when  it  pleased  her,  could  be 
almost  refined.  It  was  the  Jewess,  with  penetrating 
eye,  who,  by  degrees,  had  instilled  Laura  with  rational 
sophistication,  who  had  suggested  Darnby 's  calling, 
who  had  offered  a  premonition  of  Darnby 's  infidelity 
with  Mrs.  Whitehead— the  subtle  poison  of  infidelity 
which  had  destroyed  her  affection  for  him  in  a  day 
—who  had  prepared  her  for  his  neglect  and  future 
brutality,  had  rendered  his  long  absences  a  relief  that, 
notwithstanding  in  these  absences  Ross'  attention  to 
her  had  been  embarassingly  importunate,  had,  above 
all,  encouraged  the  determination  to  gain  an  independ- 
ent  livelihood. 

She  thought  of  all  these  things,  and  when  her  mind 
came  down  to  the  blow  of  that  evening  she  resolved 
to  be  free  at  any  sacrifice.  Her  intentions  fully  out- 
lined and  decided,  she  slept  well  into  the  morning. 

She  ordered  breakfast  to  be  served  in  her  room, 
but  cancelled  the  order  when  the  bell  boy  brought  a 
note  from  the  night  clerk.  "He  came  down  about  an 
hour  later  last  night  and  was  told  you  had  gone  out 


THE  ALLIANCE.  21 

the  side  door.  He  took  the  seven  o'clock  train  for  the 
city,"  it  read. 

She  met  Mrs.  Whitehead  at  the  dining-room  door. 
The  woman  remarked  with  unctuous  malice:  "Your 
husband  was  looking  for  you  from  eight  o'clock  until 
midnight.  Were  you  at  the  theatre?" 

"Hereafter  Darnby  will  look  for  you  and  such  as 
you.  And  if  you  address  another  word  to  me  I'll  ex- 
pose you  to  Mr.  Whitehead,"  she  retorted. 

Half  an  hour  later  Laura  had  flung  her  effects  into 
a  trunk  and  was  instructing  the  expressman  to  "Take 
it  to  your  main  office  and  leave  it  there  subject  to 
further  orders." 

Ross'  inquisitiveness  was  appeased  with  "I'm  go- 
ing home  for  awhile.  Mr.  Darnby  will  stay  here." 
She  was  in  a  highly  nervous  but  resolute  tension— 
an  urging  force  in  the  rapid  consummation  of  her 
plan.  Protony  was  more  surprised  at  her  early  ap- 
pearance than  by  her  set  countenance. 

"Why,  this  is  quite  unusual— 

"Yes,  and  I  have  something  unsual  to  propose. 
My  husband  returned  last  night.  I  cannot— I  will  not 
—live  with  him.  I'll  do  anything— anything— but  go 
back  there.  Give  me  something  to  do." 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  DEBUT  AND  A  EEVELATION. 

Laura's  advent  developed  a  design  which  Protony 
had  had  in  mind  for  a  long  time— a  purpose  that  his 
procrastinating  nature  had  deferred  whenever  a  posi- 
tive step  was  to  be  taken.  It  had  been  his  wish  to  be 
independent  of  the  Illinois  Conservatory.  He  imagined 
that  the  director  was  jealous  of  him,  was  trying  to 
circumvent  him,  because  Koening  contended  the  pupils 
should  appear  on  the  Conservatory's  stage  when  pub- 
lic performances  were  given  and  not  at  the  theatres. 
So  when  Laura  asked  for  employment  he  decided  to 
put  his  oft-postponed  plan  into  execution.  As  a  pre- 
liminary, he  sent  her  with  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
the  agent  of  the  Beaurivage,  a  huge,  pretentious  apart- 
ment dwelling  on  the  boulevard,  where  one  lived  en 
garden  en  fille  or  en  famille.  He  lodged  there  and  Laura 
selected  a  lake  front  room  on  the  floor  below  that  of 
Protony.  The  next  day  he  rented  a  small  suite  in  the 
High  Arts  Building.  His  arrangements  completed, 
he  sent  Koening  a  curt  note  of  resignation— renounc- 
ing his  position  without  a  moment's  warning.  Then 
he  appointed  Laura  secretary  of  the  Protony  School 
of  Acting. 

A  swarm  of  circulars  and  some  attractive  adver- 
tising in  the  newspapers— supplemented  by  compli- 
mentary paragraphs  among  the  dramatic  notes— made 
several  defections  from  the  Illinois  Conservatory  and 
brought  a  few  recruits  from  the  outside— a  typewriter 
(a  spurious  blonde  of  uncertain  age),  a  grocer's  clerk, 
a  grammar  school  graduate  and  a  superb  creature  with 
red  hair  and  yellow  eyes.  The  latter  Protony  dismissed 
within  a  week. 


A  DEBUT  AND  A  EEVELATION.  23 

"I've  discovered  that  she's  a  pugilist's  mistress," 
he  explained.  "I  don't  mind  that  part  of  it,  of  course. 
But  she  might  come  here  some  day  with  a  bruised  cheek 
or  a  swollen  eye,  and  so  scandalize  the  place." 

But  the  classes  at  the  opening  were  numerous 
enough  to  give  Protony  a  fair  income  after  defraying 
the  limited  items  of  expenditure,  of  which  the  largest 
was  the  rent  and  the  smallest  Laura's  salary.  The 
change  in  position  was  advantageous  to  Laura's  tuition. 
Protony  gave  her  private  instructions  every  day,  fol- 
lowing the  regular  hours. 

The  rehearsal  of  "Household  Spirits"  were  con- 
tinued—the pupils  taking  part  in  the  comedietta  had 
come  over  from  the  older  institution.  The  performance 
was  announced  for  a  Monday  afternoon,  a  fortnight 
after  the  Protony  School  of  Acting  had  been  in  being. 
The  while,  Laura  and  Protony  dined  together  every 
day  at  a  French  restaurant  where  the  cooking  was 
thorough  and  the  fixed  price  as  modest  as  the  menu. 

The  intimacy  enhanced  his  affection  for  her,  but 
respect  was  not  superseded  by  familiarity,  as  often  hap- 
pens in  such  relations  with  young  people  lacking  innate 
refinement.  He  was  ever  the  gentleman— one  who  ap- 
preciated that  the  woman  whom  he  loved  appreciated 
him  for  his  gentle  and  cultured  qualities.  Both  recog- 
nized that  marriage  was  impossible— but  the  recogni- 
tion proceeded  from  different  premises.  To  her,  of 
course,  Darnby  was  the  sole  obstacle.  To  him  Darnby 
was  not  so  much  in  mind  as  his  plans  and  ambitions 
—things  that  made  him  necessarily  selfish.  Addition- 
ally, he  had  always  been  extremely  doubtful  of  matri- 
mony as  an  efficacy  of  permanent  happiness;  rather, 
he  held,  with  the  major  part  of  his  profession,  that 
marriage  was  a  guarantee  of  speedy  infelicity— and  the 
many  and  varied  experiences  of  the  people  of  the  thea- 
tre largely  contributed  to  this  conclusion.  Further, 
he  with  the  more  part  of  his  class,  believed  that  their 
so-called  liberalism  (really  nothing  more  than  a  badly 
digested  idea  of  Bohemianism,  a  superficial  misinter- 
pretation of  Schopenhauerian  philosophy)  was  incom- 
patible with  the  old-fashioned  institution  of  marriage. 


24  A  DEBUT  AND  A  REVELATION. 

True,  they  had  nothing  to  offer  as  a  substitute,  but 
that  did  not  matter— to  them.  They  simply  trampled 
on  the  old  scheme  that  made  for  homes  and  families, 
and  allowed  society  to  take  care  of  itself  as  best  it 
could. 

Laura,  however,  thought  only  of  the  barrier  caused 
by  Darnby,  but  said  nothing,  hoping  for  a  suggestion, 
an  initiative  from  Protony,  who  seemed  completely 
content  socially.  Aside  from  that,  his  thoughts  were 
with  his  work,  with  which  he  made  Laura  thoroughly 
familiar.  One  day  he  told  her  he  believed  Koening 
and  McDougal,  the  critic  for  The  Daily  Spirit,  were 
leagued  against  him.  Koening  had  offered  McDougal 
an  interest  in  the  theatre  which  the  German  proposed 
to  build,  and  the  bait  caught.  The  suspicion  was  con- 
firmed by  McDougal 's  criticism  of  the  performance 
of  the  "Household  Spirits"  and  "The  Dawn."  The 
review  of  the  latter  composition,  Protony  admitted, 
was  in  a  degree  basic,  for  in  putting  the  piece  in  scene 
there  had  only  been  a  fortnight's  preparation  of  five 
new  scholars.  But  the  harsh  lines  written  of  "House- 
hold Spirits"  were  voted  an  outrage  by  everybody 
around  the  conservatory,  a  judgment  in  a  way  sus- 
tained when  the  rescensions  of  the  other  critics  were 
drawn  in  comparison.  The  Interior,  in  long,  involved 
sentences,  praised  the  developing  talents  of  the  students 
in  a  paternal  mode  and  suggested  emendations  in  the 
dialogue  of  "Household  Spirits."  In  conclusion  there 
was  a  commendatory  line  for  Laura.  The  Forum's 
brief  critique  began  with  Laura  Darnby  (Protony 
thought  "Darnby"  looked  better  on  the  programme 
than  her  maiden  name,  "Ruhland,"  so  the  name  was 
retained.)  It  lauded  her  in  a  wealth  of  glowing  adject- 
ives. "The  empyreal  youth,"  "the  sumptuous 
beauty,"  "the  cheerful  self-possession  of  the  highly- 
promising  amateur."  A  kind  word  was  written  of 
Bingold's  play  and  the  pupils  were  told  they  had  the 
"adorable  freshness  of  adolescence,"  "the  fragrance 
and  florescence  of  enviable  youth."  The  Daily  Spirit 
dismissed  the  "crude  affair"  in  a  disdainful  paragraph. 

Laura  felt  grateful  to  The  Forum.    She  wished  to 


A  DEBUT  AND  A  REVELATION.  25 

meet  the  critic,  Mr.  Phelon.  She  thought  that  his 
"cheerful  self-possession"  described  her  state  of  mind 
precisely,  for  after  the  initial  plunge— after  the  first 
minutes— she  was  quite  free  from  embarassment,  pre- 
senting a  comforting  contrast  to  her  associates,  who, 
consumed  with  a  yearning  to  distinguish  themselves, 
were  conscious,  and,  in  consequence,  stilted ;  quite  free, 
because  she  had  begun  taking  the  business  of  acting 
as  a  means  to  an  end,  as  a  profession  in  which  one 
became  proficient  as  in  other  professions— by  study, 
diligence,  practice.  When  the  curtain  had  fallen  on 
"Household  Spirits"  Protony  had  said:  "Admirable, 
my  dear,  admirable.  I  wish  you  would  finish  in  the 
dressing  room  as  soon  as  possible  and  go  to  the  front. 
I  should  like  to  have  you  tell  me  how  'The  Dawn' 
looks  to  you  and  how  the  audience  takes  it.  I've  an 
engagement  following  the  performance  so  I'll  not  be 
able  to  see  you  until  breakfast." 

Not  until  the  men  in  the  boxes,  who  Laura  knew 
were  journalists,  had  singled  her  from  the  audience 
with  pleased  glances,  was  she  aware  that  her  presence 
was  distinguished.  Equally  gratifying  were  the  con- 
gratulations of  Miss  Rosenau  and  Miss  Carr,  who  at 
the  fall  of  the  final  curtain,  met  her  in  the  foyer. 

"I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  as  when  I  saw 
your  name  in  the  announcement  which  The  Forum 
published  yesterday,"  ejaculated  the  Jewess.  "I  had 
no  idea  you  were  inclined  to  the  stage.  You  did  won- 
derfully well.  You  went  through  your  part  with  the 
ease  of  an  experienced  actress." 

Miss  Carr  made  a  transition  with  "Are  you  keeping 
house?  Where  do  you  live?" 

Laura  was  puzzled.  "Keeping  house?  Why,  no. 
Isn't  Darnby— Mr.  Darnby— at  the  hotel?" 

They,  in  turn  were  puzzled.  No,  Mr.  Darnby  had 
not  been  seen  there  for  weeks.  The  guests  supposed 
the  Darnbys  had  set  up  housekeeping  or  had  gone  to 
another  hotel. 

With  keen  curiosity— but  with  no  feeling  in  the  mat- 
ter—Laura speculated  on  Darnby 's  whereabouts.  She 


26  A  DEBUT  AND  A  KEVELATION. 

spoke  of  him  to  Protony  the  next  morning,  who  she 
noticed,  was  pale  and  concerned. 

"He  is  also  on  my  mind,"  Protony  answered.  "The 
engagement  which  I  had  yesterday  was  with  Darnby. 
I  thought  it  best  not  to  tell  you  anything  until  I  had 
heard  what  he  had  to  say.  I  met  him  at  the  Palmer 
House  and  the  first  question  he  asked  me  was  whether 
I  thought  you  had  talent.  Not  suspecting  his  motive, 
I  said  you  were  gifted  and  that  you  had  a  brilliant 
future.  He  then  wanted  to  know  if  you  were  behind 
in  the  payment  of  your  tuition.  I  told  him  that  you 
were  employed  by  me  and  that  you  paid  for  your  les- 
sons from  the  salary  you  received.  He  said  that  it 
was  not  necessary  for  you  to  be  employed,  that  he 
would  meet  all  your  obligations." 

Laura  did  not  understand.    She  asked: 

"Why,  what  does  he  mean?" 

In  a  tone  that  was  unwontedly  low  and  with  lips 
that  betrayed  tremulousness  Protony  replied : 

"I'm  afraid  he  will  want  to  participate  in  the  re- 
sults of  your  probable  success  on  the  stage.  And  he 
— he  may  want  you  to  live  with  him."  His  look  was 
stressed  with  supplicative  anxiety. 

Her  swift  answer  acted  like  a  powerful  tonic : 

"Never!  No,  never!  I  shall  not  live  with  him  an 
instant.  The  very  thought  of  going  back  to  him  sickens 
me." 

"There's  a  way  of— of— of  avoiding  him  forever." 

She  caught  the  suggestion. 

"You  mean  a — " 

"A  div— a  separation."  He  modified  the  idea  mid- 
way in  speech.  His  delicacy  prompted  the  substitu- 
tion of  a  word  less  harsh  to  her  sensibility  than  the 
one  that  first  came  to  his  lips. 

In  a  vague  way— objective  rather  than  subject- 
ive— it  had  come  to  her  before.  Yet  now  that  a  decision 
was  fronted  she  was  riven  by  its  importance.  Protony, 
keenly  appreciative  of  her  hesitative  perturbation, 
approached  the  initial  phases  of  the  question  tact- 
fully, gently.  Well  into  the  matter,  he  became  more 
pronounced,  an  accentuation  actuated  by  the  vital  in- 


A  DEBUT  AND  A  EEVELATION.  27 

terest  he  had  in  the  subject.  Exhausting  the  moral 
aspect  of  his  counsel  (he  had  quoted  Tolstoi's  dictum, 
which  holds  that  once  love  ceases,  further  relations 
between  man  and  wife  are  immoral)  he  expatiated  on 
the  material  phase  of  it.  He  insisted  that  of  all  the 
impedimenta  to  a  successful  stage  career,  for  a  young 
woman  to  have  a  coarse,  debauched  husband  was  the 
most  fatal. 

"But  the  scandal  of— of  a  divorce,  Clarence!" 
There  need  be  no  scandal,  he  assured.  A  decree 
could  be  quietly  obtained.  Here  in  the  city  divorces 
were  granted  every  day  without  provoking  a  line  of 
publicity.  He  would  make  a  certainty  doubly  sure 
by  seeing  his  friends,  the  editors  of  the  daily  papers, 
who  surely  would  favor  him  by  ignoring  the  case.  She 
consented  to  institute  proceedings,  and  he  made  a  tour 
of  newspaper  offices  the  next  day.  With  the  single  and 
signal  exception  of  The  Diary,  the  managing  editor 
promised  to  pass  the  case.  Godfrey  Rowland  of  The 
Diary— an  evasive  personality,  with  a  countenance  of 
complete  lubricity  and  vulpine  duplicity— said  he 
would  be  "governed  by  circumstances."  Protony  ex- 
pected some  difficulty  here,  for  Rowland's  prosperity 
was  contingent  upon  the  exploitation  or  the  suppres- 
sion of  social  irregularities  and  infelicities.  Ethically 
and  politically  The  Diary's  standing  and  power  was  that 
of  a  blackmailer.  But  Protony  said  nothing  to  Laura 
about  the  possibility  of  an  attack  in  what  he  consid- 
ered an  ineligible  quarter,  trusting  to  her  ignorance 
of  the  vicious  sheet.  He  was  sure  nothing  of  a  notori- 
ous nature  would  follow  out  of  her  petition  to  the 
judge,  a  kindly  jurist,  with  white  immense  hair  and  a 
patriarchal  beard,  who  might  well  have  been  an  elder 
brother  of  her  attorney,  so  alike  were  they  in  appear- 
ance. 

Darnby  had  been  served  with  a  notice  from  the  court, 
which  was  supplemented  by  a  note  from  Laura's  coun- 
sel, who  warned  Darnby  that  if  he  opposed  a  separa- 
tion he  would  be  put  in  Professor  Whitehead's  danger; 
the  ground  for  divorce  would  be  changed  to  adultery, 
and  Mrs.  "Whitehead  named  as  co-respondent. 


28  A  DEBUT  AND  A  EEVELATION. 

The  reason  given  was  cruelty.  The  night  clerk  of 
the  Lake  Side  Hotel  was  the  only  witness.  He  testi- 
fied Mrs.  Darnby  had  come  to  him  past  midnight  in 
great  confusion  and  obvious  agitation  and  that  he  had 
noted  her  bruised  neck  which  appeared  to  have  been 
caused  by  a  blow.  The  judge  deemed  the  evidence 
sufficient. 

With  a  fervor  that  nothing  less  than  a  powerful 
climax  at  the  theatre  could  have  elicited,  Protony  con- 
gratulated Laura,  who  felt  an  ineffable  relief  when  she 
understood  she  was  free  of  Darnby.  But  her  profound 
contentment  was  alloyed  in  the  evening,  when  an  Amer- 
ican District  Telegraph  messenger  presented  a  large 
envelope  in  an  inscription  she  at  once  recognized.  The 
seal  broken,  The  Diary  came  to  view,  with  the  leading 
news  article  on  the  front  page  conspicuously  marked 
in  lines  of  blue  pencil.  Headed  with  big  type  and  sensa- 
tionally worded  followed  a  column  of  comment  on  her 
divorce.  Of  the  hearing  itself  there  was  little—a  bare 
mention  that  a  decree  had  been  granted.  But  the  short 
and  peppery  paragraphs  were  stuffed  with  scandalous 
inuendoes  of  Mrs.  Darnby 's  life  at  the  Lake  Side  Hotel  ; 
an  intimation  of  the  relations  between  "the  experienced 
pupil  and  the  experienced  tutor  at  Protony 's  School 
of  Dramatic  Art."  Not  a  word  against  Darnby,  so  it 
was  palpable  that  he  had  furnished  the  material  for  the 
article.  She  read  it  with  riveted  eyes,  with  emotions 
entirely  suspended.  But  when  the  paper  dropped  from 
her  hands,  a  sickening  sensation  assailed  her.  Shame, 
helpless,  ungovernable,  unconcealable  shame,  fol- 
lowed ;  a  feeling  as  if  she  had  been  apprehended,  in 
the  face  of  a  staring  crowd,  in  a  nameless  crime.  She 
wished  to  hide  somewhere,  anywhere,  but  away  from 
here.  She  pulled  the  curtains  down,  lowered  the  lights 
—and  finally  found  relief  in  tears.  She  wept  like  a 
child,  copiously,  shamefacedly. 

Had  not  her  eyes  been  dried  before  she  saw  Protony 
his  appearance  had  changed  her  emotions.  He  came 
down  with  The  Diary  in  his  hand,  his  face  decomposed 
and  a  dead  yellow.  In  a  voice  she  did  not  recognize 
he  asked  her  if  she  had  read  "this."  Laura,  now  fairly 
self-controlled,  feigned  to  make  light  of  it,  though  con- 


A  DEBUT  AND  A  REVELATION.  29 

soled  in  supposing  that  Protony  should  take  anything 
so  much  to  heart  in  which  she  was  concerned.  She  put 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  gently  adjured  him  not 
to  mind— she  assured  him  that  she  was  not  affected 
by  Darnby's  miserable  revenge. 

"But,  my  God,  what  about  me?  It  will  kill  the 
reputation  I  've  worked  for  so  hard ;  it  may  block  all  my 
plans!" 

This  rift  into  his  character— the  glimpse  of  its 
fundamental  selfishness— shocked  her  more  than 
Darnby's  blow. 

The  day  he  suggested  that  she  get  a  divorce  her 
pride  was  touched  because  he,  at  the  same  time,  had 
omitted  the  implied  complement  of  a  hint  of  an  ulti- 
mate union  between  themselves.  Subsequently  she  con- 
soled herself  with  the  thought  that  he  had  refrained 
from  the  suggestion  that  she  might  not  impugn  his  mo- 
tives in  counseling  a  separation  from  Darnby.  She  had 
decided  to  hold  him  guiltless  of  crass  egoism  until  a 
divorce  had  been  pronounced.  And  the  very  day  she 
had  expected  him  to  prove  that  his  moral  delicacy 
was  not  surpassed  by  his  aesthetic  refinement  he 
shouted:  "But,  my  God,  what  about  me?" 

Not  a  word  was  said  for  some  seconds.  Protony, 
entirely  self-centered,  had  fallen  into  a  chair,  without 
having  removed  his  hat— his  face  toward  the  floor, 
expressing  a  morose  and  discouraged  condition  of  mind. 

She  could  not  entirely  conceal  a  note  of  contempt 
when  she  said:  "Don't  take  it  so  seriously;  you've 
not  been  hurt.  The  Diary  cannot  hurt  anybody.  The 
character  of  the  paper  is  known."  And  she  added 
with  a  subtle  malice: 

"If  your  plan  for  a  stock  company  is  feasible,  you'll 
have  no  trouble  in  carrying  it  through." 

The  shade  of  doubt  which  she  insinuated  struck 
home.  In  an  instant  The  Diary  had  passed  out  his 
mind  and  he  was  vociferous  in  demonstrating  that  the 
success  of  his  scheme  would  admit  of  no  doubt.  He  had 
altered  his  plans.  He  would  not  call  it  the  Chicago 
Theatre.  The  name  would  be  the  Theatre  of  Art  and 
Letters.  He  proposed  an  ancillary  attraction ;  a  memo- 


30  A  DEBUT  AND  A  REVELATION. 

rial  room,  containing  as  many  souvenirs  of  famous 
dramatists— from  Shakespeare  to  Pinero— as  were  to 
be  had.  This  feature,  he  was  sure,  would  appeal  to 
capitalists. 

She  interrupted  inconsiderately  with  the  challenging 
question:  "You've  been  talking  of  this  from  the  day  I 
first  met  you.  Why  don 't  you  consummate  your  plan  ? ' ' 

Laura  was  in  no  mood  to  spare  him  and  she  fol- 
lowed with  a  wounding  allusion  to  the  deficiency  of 
men  who  plan  only  to  postpone.  And  her  resentment 
of  his  unguarded  display  of  selfishness  was  the  spur 
that  forced  him  to  action.  That  night  he  wrote  a  pros- 
pectus. The  following  day  he  solicited  a  written  en- 
dorsement of  his  project  from  Phelon  and  Burrows, 
who  approved  it  -warmly.  With  these  letters  he  be- 
gan a  round  of  likely  subscribers— bankers,  brokers, 
financiers  and  men  of  wealth  who  were  not  financiers. 
His  initial  call  was  on  the  very  rich  Jonathan  Hatch, 
Junior,  known  as  the  son  of  an  eccentric  cornerer  of 
cereal,  and  as  a  collector  of  pictorial  masterpieces  as- 
sumed to  be  genuine.  Mr.  Hatch  confessed  he  knew 
nothing  of  theatres;  neither  he  nor  his  family  ever 
attended  the  play.  But  if  Protony  believed  a  stock 
company  would  advance  art  in  Chicago ;  if  Protony  was 
quite  sure  the  scheme  were  profitable,  he  would  take 
the  matter  under  consideration  and,  the  while,  give  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  Charles  Wellsworth,  president 
of  the  Park  Exchange  National  Bank,  whose  cult  was 
sculpture  and  who,  besides,  interested  himself  in  the 
drama  and  such  things.  Protony  sat  half  an  hour  in 
the  waiting  room  contiguous  to  the  president's  office. 
When  at  last  he  was  admitted,  Mr.  Wellsworth  grasped 
his  hand  nervously  with  the  right  and  took  Hatch's 
note  with  the  left.  In  reading  the  few  lines— the  es- 
sence of  which  was  Mr.  Protony  wants  to  build  a  thea- 
tre— Mr.  Wellsworth 's  grip  relaxed,  his  nervous  exu- 
berance suddenly  subsided.  Personally  he  could  do 
nothing  just  then.  His  own  money  was  invested  in 
real  estate.  The  bank,  of  course,  could  put  no  funds 
in  anything  without  ample  security.  No  doubt  Brander 
Jones  of  the  Eastern  Trust  Company  would  head  the 


A  DEBUT  AND  A  EEVELATION.  31 

subscription  list  with  a  handsome  sum.  With  a  few 
strokes  of  the  pen  Mr.  Wellsworth  told  Mr.  Jones  that 
Mr.  Protony  was  a  worthy  young  man  whose  purpose 
would  elevate  the  community.  Protony  gained  access 
to  Jones  immediately.  He  was  not  invited  to  take  a 
chair;  such  an  invitation  was  obviously  reserved  for 
those  who  were  known.  Directly  Mr.  Jones  scented 
the  profitlessness  of  the  proposal  he  got  up— a  sign  that 
Protony 's  audience  soon  would  end.  He  made  a  final 
test  of  a  possible  thrift  in  the  thing  for  his  institution : 
''Have  you  any  subscribers?  Who  is  your  banker?" 
The  negative  answer  sent  him  to  the  door.  He  turned 
the  knob  himself  to  hasten  Protony 's  departure.  "1 
regret  I  can  do  nothing  for  you,  sir. ' ' 

Protony,  easily  elated  and  as  easily  dejected,  was 
not  only  discouraged  but  humiliated  by  this  last  ex- 
perience. He  felt  as  an  importunate  beggar  must  feel 
— if  there  be  sensitive  mendicants— who  ask  for  alms 
inopportunely.  Utterly  put  down  he  wandered  to- 
ward his  office.  On  the  way  he  heard : ' '  Have  you  tried 
it  on,  dear  boy?"  It  was  the  voice  of  Phelon,  soft  and 
agreeably  modulated  with  its  scholarly  enunciation. 
In  appearance  the  two  men  were  alike.  Temperamentally 
they  were  antepodal.  Phelon 's  eyes  told  of  indolence, 
nonchalance,  facile  talent,  careless  independence.  Pro- 
tony 's  long  face  shortened  at  sight  of  the  journalist, 
whose  reputation  had  just  been  spread  across  seas  by 
Henry  Irving,  who,  at  a  London  banquet,  between  sev- 
eral glasses  of  champagne,  had  declared  Phelon  to  be 
one  of  the  best  dramatic  critics  in  the  language;  and 
the  eulogy,  disseminated  by  Renter's  agency  through- 
out Europe,  was  cabled  over  to  the  Associated  Press. 
In  the  cat's  hump  attitude  which  he  involuntarily  struck 
in  the  presence  of  the  widely-read  reviewer  Protony 
acknowledged  differentially : 

"I'm  afraid  I  am  scoring  another  failure,  Mr.  Phe- 
lon." 

"Don't  say  that,  dear  boy.  Call  it  successful  experi- 
ence. Besides,  you  haven't  made  any  preliminary  ex- 
ploitation. You  should  '  work  the  press, '  as  the  advance 
agent  says.  Let  me  have  the  plans  and  a  sketch  of 


32  A  DEBUT  AND  A  EEVELATION. 

that  fine  theatre  you  are  going  to  give  us.  I'll  have 
a  nice  notice  in  The  Forum  tomorrow." 

"Why,  yes,  he's  right,"  counseled  Laura,  when 
Protony  told  her  what  he  had  done.  "I  wonder  you 
had  not  thought  of  that.  You  must  give  the  thing  wide 
publicity."  She  added  maliciously,  "And  that  will 
counteract  the  effect  of  The  Diary,  you  know. 

He  took  the  thrust  without  thinking  of  a  retort, 
being  buoyed  to  good  humor  by  the  expectation  of  what 
Phelon  would  do  for  him. 

Phelon  endorsed  the  enterprise  unqualifiedly.  In- 
clusive of  a  cut  of  the  theatre  The  Forum  published 
two  columns  urging  wealthy  citizens  to  subscibe  to 
the  playhouse.  The  stock  company  were  an  antidote 
to  the  one-star  and  combination  system  which  was  de- 
grading dramatic  art  everywhere  outside  of  New  York. 
New  York  had  several  indigenious  organizations  of  a 
highly  artistic  order  while  Chicago  must  depend  on 
strolling  companies  for  her  theatrical  performances. 
Mr.  Protony  had  shown  by  his  work  at  the  Conserva- 
tory that  he  had  the  qualifications  necessary  to  the 
management  of  a  permanent  association  of  actors;  it 
would  be  a  stimulant  to  the  American  dramatist  who 
received  but  little  encouragement  in  New  York,  where 
plays  by  foreign  writers  only  were  produced.  Chicago 
had  the  best  orchestra  in  the  country  in  Theodore 
Thomas'  musicians;  Mr.  Thomas'  presence  had  been  an 
educational  force  in  music.  A  stock  company  would 
do  the  same  for  the  drama. 

The  article  lifted  Protony  to  confident  enthusiasm. 
He  was  positive  the  subscription  list  must  be  filled  that 
day.  He  set  out  full  of  confidence.  Presently  his  glow 
lowered  at  the  sight  of  Burrows  of  The  Interior. 
Protony  greeted  him  with  the  deferential  urbanity  he 
always  assumed  in  the  company  of  journalists  other 
than  Phelon,  with  whom  the  deference  was  emphasized 
and  the  urbanity  diminished  to  imperceptibility.  The 
tall,  imposing  critic  jerked  his  head  forward  less  than 
half  an  inch,  looked  savage  and  passed  on.  Protony, 
all  alarmed,  turned  back  and  in  an  appealing  register, 
called :  ' '  Mr.  Burrows !  Mr.  Burrows ! ' ' 


A  DEBUT  AND  A  REVELATION.  33 

Burrows  turned  suddenly  with:    "Well?" 

"I— I— greeted  you  and  I  was  afraid  you  didn't 
see  me." 

"Well?" 

Protony  was  now  sure  that  Burrows '  slight  had  been 
intentional.  Feverish  to  know  the  reason  he  made  an 
opening : 

"Did  you  see  The  Forum  this  morning,  Mr.  Bur- 
rows?" 

He  unwittingly  came  to  the  source :  ' '  Protony,  why 
in  hell  did  you  give  that  story  only  to  The  Forumf" 

Not  until  then  did  Protony  realize  what  he  had 
done— furnished  The  Forum  with  a  scoop  on  its  rivals. 
The  realization  of  the  enormity  of  his  tactlessness 
dazed  him. 

"Mr.  Burrows  I— I— I— couldn't  get  the  money  for 
my  scheme.  I — I  was  discouraged  and  happened  to 
meet  Mr.  Phelon — I  mean  Phelon — who  suggested  what 
you  saw  in  the  paper.  He  believed  such  a  notice  would 
put  the  scheme  through." 

The  change  from  "Mr.  Phelon"  to  "I  mean  Phelon," 
a  fugitive  trifle  and  quite  involuntary,  was  indicative 
of  a  shifty  trait  which  was  not  lost  on  Burrows. 

"He  said  it  would  put  the  thing  through,  did  he? 
Well,  we  '11  see. ' '  with  this  he  turned  and  walked  away. 

Protony 's  fetish  was  the  press.  He  felt  superla- 
tive joy  in  its  praise ;  an  unnamable  terror  in  its  criti- 
cism. The  possibility  of  having  incurred  the  enmity 
of  The  Interior  through  lack  of  tact  filled  him  with  a 
sickening  terror.  For  an  hour  he  paced  Michigan  Ave- 
nue trying  to  devise  a  conciliatory  plan.  Twice  he  en- 
tered a  saloon  for  whisky.  The  brutal  stimulant  im- 
parted transient  courage  and  quickened  his  imagina- 
tion. Finally,  he  thought  he  had  hit  upon  a  solution. 
He  would  appease  Burrows  by  giving  The  Interior  a 
scoop  on  the  list  of  subscribers,  the  roster  of  players 
engaged,  the  name  of  the  first  play  to  be  produced. 
He  had  chosen  the  actors  some  time  ago  and  Sardou's 
"Diplomacy"  was  to  be  the  opening  drama.  All  was 
arranged  except  the  subscriptions.  With  these  he  must 


34  A  DEBUT  AND  A  REVELATION. 

begin  at  once.  He  took  another  drink  of  the  violent 
liquor  and  then  turned  toward  La  Salle  street. 

The  opening  solicitation  was  the  private  banking 
house  of  Slamsey  and  Company.  The  senior  member 
greeted  him  with  Southern  geniality.  He  listened  with 
approving  nods  and  propitious  interjections;  read  the 
letters  and  examined  the  plan  attentively.  Protony 
watched  the  broker's  immobile  countenance  in  hopeful 
expectancy  which  ended  in  the  certainty  that  Mr. 
Slamsey  would  write  down  for  a  large  amount.  He 
presented  the  scroll  destitute  of  names:  "Now,  Mr. 
Slamsey,  may  I  ask  you  to  start  this  with  a  round 
sum?" 

The  banker  encircled  Protony 's  arm  with  his  hand 
confidentially:  "Yes,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so — but  not 
just  at  present.  We  are  not  quite  ready  for  such  an 
enterprise.  In  a  few  years — say  four  or  five.  Stick 
to  your  Conservatory  a  little  longer,  my  man,  and  then 
come  back  to  us.  We  '11  start  you  handsomely — in  time. 
Do  you  smoke  ?  Take  one — they  are  really  good. ' ' 

The  refusal  was  the  more  telling  because  of  its  bland 
vivacity.  Protony  found  himself  on  the  curbstone  in 
that  state  of  nervous  frenzy  which  drives  balked  women 
to  a  hysterical  persistence.  In  something  like  deliri- 
ous desperation  he  made  the  rounds  of  a  dozen  financial 
institutions.  In  the  first  of  these  he  got  a  hideous 
shock  from  the  question  of  the  President:  "Who  is 
Phelon?"  Why,  was  it  possible  not  to  know  Phelon 
— Phelon  the  great  dramatic  critic?  At  two  offices  he 
was  refused  access  to  the  Presidents;  they  were  too 
busy  to  see  him.  Here  he  was  cut  short  in  the  midst 
of  his  exposition;  there  he  was  answered:  "No", 
directly  he  exposed  his  plan.  Four  more  bankers  had 
never  heard  of  Phelon,  had  not  read  The  Forum  article, 
but  promised  to  get  a  copy  of  the  paper  and  study  the 
proposition  at  their  leisure.  Three  financiers  were  dea- 
cons who  could  not  conscientiously  entertain  a  proposal 
to  aid  in  the  building  of  a  theatre.  At  the  last,  he  was 
irrevocably  demoralized  by  the  head  of  the  Occidental 
Security  Company,  who  said  that  all  theatrical  men 
were  swindlers. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  SAMAEITAN  INTEUDEB. 

"Are  you  ill,  Clarence?" 

Laura  asked  the  question,  prompted  by  Protony's 
white,  drawn,  defeated  face.  He  threw  the  prospec- 
tus on  the  table  and  fell  in  a  chair. 

"111?  No;  worse;  I'm  killed.  I  couldn't  raise  a 
dollar.  Where  I  wasn't  snubbed  I  was  insulted.  In 
some  places  I  was  treated  like  a  burglar." 

To  him  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  have  met 
with  such  treatment.  With  his  supersensitive  tempera- 
ment, ungovernable  imagination  and  complete  ignor- 
ance of  practical  affairs  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should 
arrive  at  an  absurd  conclusion ;  there  was  a  conspiracy 
with  Burrows  behind  it.  His  fixed  idea  could  not  be 
dislodged  by  the  gross  discrepancy — to  which  his  atten- 
tion was  called  by  Laura— that  The  Forum  article 
was  of  that  day,  so  that  Burrows  could  not  have  had 
time  to  effect  an  opposition,  especially  among  financial 
men.  That  didn't  matter,  Protony  insisted — Burrows 
must  have  heard  of  Phelon's  intention.  Had  he  not 
threatened  that  the  scheme  would  end  disastrously? 
If  no  hint  had  been  passed  around  La  Salle  Street 
was  it  possible  that  all  should  have  withheld  their 
signatures.  There  was  a  conspiracy.  He  held  to  his 
theory  with  the  tenacity  of  the  weak — and  a  few  days 
later  changed  mind  with  the  suddenness  of  the  imagina- 
tive. No,  it  wasn't  Burrows  after  all.  He  met  the 
critic  by  an  appointment  of  Burrows'  making.  The 
Interior  man  had  apologized  for  the  way  he  had  greeted 
Protony  the  other  day.  His  rudeness  had  proceeded 
from  the  chagrin  felt  at  being  scooped  by  the  The 
Forum.  That  over,  he  wished  to  re-establish  their 

(36) 


36  A  SAMAEITAN  INTRUDER. 

cordial  relations.  And  as  an  earnest  of  his  good  will 
he  would  submit  a  play  upon  which  he  had  been  occu- 
pied for  six  months.  He  would  send  it  to  Protony 
directly  the  stock  company  was  formed. 

"I  hadn't  the  heart  to  tell  him  how  unsuccessful  I 
was  in  getting  subscriptions,"  Protony  acknowledged 
timidly.  Then  hopefully,  ' '  I  may  find  a  way  of  putting 
the  thing  through  after  all." 

The  hope  evaporated  in  the  failure  to  discover  a 
means  of  breaking  the  blockade  of  La  Salle  Street's 
unanimous  rejection  of  the  theatre;  so  that  if  it  was 
not  a  conspiracy  fostered  by  Burrows,  it  must  be  the 
effect  of  the  article  in  The  Diary.  Laura  combated 
this  deduction  futilely,  for  it  became  invincible  with 
Protony.  The  connection  with  that  divorce  had  hurt 
his  reputation  irremediably.  Ignorant  as  a  toad  of  the 
prime  principles  which  governs  business,  it  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  he  had  been  turned  away  because 
bankers  could  see  no  profit  in  his  proposition.  "With  his 
misdirected  vision  on  a  very  distant  object  he  did  not 
see  that  his  standing  had  been  impaired  in  an  intimate 
quarter  by  The  Diary's  revelations  until  half  his  pupils 
were  gone.  Two  girls,  sisters,  whose  father  had  be- 
come rapidly  and  prodigiously  rich  and  who  were 
burning  to  have  grace  of  body  and  speech,  were  the 
first  to  go— their  health  compelled  them  to  suspend 
their  studies  for  a  while.  This  defection  soon  influ- 
enced other  female  scholars.  Laura  perceived  the 
secessions  and  apprehended  their  cause,  but  said  noth- 
ing. She  hoped  the  old  pupils  would  be  replaced  by 
new.  A  realization  of  the  situation  came  to  Protony 
with  a  rushing  force  one  morning  when  Laura  was 
compelled  to  call  his  attention  to  a  heap  of  unpaid 
bills.  The  rent,  gas  and  miscellaneous  charges  were 
overdue  and  there  were  no  funds  with  which  to  meet 
them.  The  money  paid  for  tuition  had  been  given  to 
Protony  as  usual,  and  he,  as  usual,  had  spent  the  cus- 
tomary amount.  Awakened  from  his  dreams  and 
schemes  he  saw  what  had  happened  and  at  the  discov- 
ery his  selfishness  leaped  to  the  surface. 

His    first    impulse    was    self-protection.      Without 


One  of  those  unconscious  flashes  that  disclose  the  lowest  layer  of 
a  man's  character." — Page  37. 


A  SAMARITAN  INTRUDER.  37 

thought,  involuntarily,  he  exclaimed:  "Say,  we'll  have 
to  separate.  At  this  rate  we'll  both  starve."  It  was 
one  of  those  unconscious  flashes  that  discloses  the  low- 
est layer  of  a  man's  character.  He  had  again  be- 
trayed his  egoism  to  Laura,  who  once  more  registered 
it  against  him.  When  his  fear  had  subsided,  when 
his  mind  became  pacific,  he  asked  to  be  forgiven.  She 
quite  calmly  told  him:  "You  are  weak  and  selfish, 
Clarence." 

The  frank  description  humbled  him  for  several  days. 
He  was  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  her.  Instead 
of  dining  at  the  French  cafe  he  proposed  a  less  expen- 
sive restaurant  and  if  business  did  not  mend  they  could 
give  up  their  chambers  at  the  Beaurivage  and  engage 
rooms  on  the  North  or  West  side,  where  rent  was 
cheaper  and  the  accommodations  not  bad.  They  made 
the  change  in  a  fortnight,  and  six  weeks  later  the 
agent  of  the  High  Arts  Building  warned  Protony  that 
the  School  of  Acting  was  two  months  in  arrears.  A 
smaller  and  less  expensive  suite  was  taken  in  Clark 
street.  Laura  accepted  the  moves  without  complaint, 
but  Protony  became  irritable.  His  pride  was  wounded, 
a  wound  which  his  acquaintances  kept  sensitized  by 
insinuating  questions,  by  looks  of  wondering  pity. 
From  a  commercial  point  of  view  Clark  street— the 
thoroughfare  of  the  penny  gaff,  of  the  cheap  and  of 
the  distressed  actor— proved  dear.  Protony  lost  his 
best  male  students.  Now  and  again  a  rowdy  (and 
generally  improvident)  youth  was  enrolled,  but  he 
would  not  remain  beyond  the  period  prescribed  by  his 
initial  payment.  Protony,  in  Laura's  presence,  re- 
strained himself  with  discernible  effort.  When  alone 
he  was  morose  and  his  moroseness  had  the  sinking 
element  of  remorsefulness— regret,  after  all,  that  he 
had  met  Laura.  For  weeks  she  had  been  on  trial  be- 
fore him,  for  having  caused  his  professional  humiliation. 
And  he  convicted  her— she  was  the  impediment  to  his 
success.  He  said  nothing  to  her  of  his  sentence;  but 
his  long  silences  at  table,  his  preoccupied  air  when 
they  were  in  the  street  together,  his  evasive  manner 
at  home  and  at  the  Conservatory  warned  her  that  he 


38  A  SAMAEITAN  INTRUDER. 

was  bitterly  distrustful.  She  said  .  nothing,  thinking 
that  he  was  in  the  throes  of  despondency  from  which 
he  would  emerge  stronger,  more  hopeful,  more  ener- 
getic. 

But  he  suggested  his  position  pointedly  one  day. 
"I  read  Schopenhauer's  'Metaphysics  of  Love'  last 
night.  You  should  read  it.  It's  a  wonderful  study 
of  a  vital  thing.  What  appeals  to  me  especially  is, 
the  German  insists  that  the  constant  association  with 
an  attractive  woman  clouds  a  man 's  intellect ;  that  she 
is  very  dangerous  to  a  man  of  intellectual  pursuits." 

She  retorted  "I  did  not  know  that  I  was  attractive 
or  that  you  were  intellectual." 

She  left  abruptly  and  repaired  to  her  room  deter- 
mined to  break  with  him.  The  direct  affront  had 
wrought  her  to  such  a  pitch  of  indignation  that  she 
made  ready  to  leave  at  the  first  opportunity.  She 
wrote  to  a  widely-known  New  York  dramatic  agency 
an  application  for  an  engagement  and  looked  up  the 
address  of  several  local  agents,  in  readiness  to  call  on 
them.  The  next  day  she  went  to  a  huge  building  in 
Dearborn  street,  was  hoisted  to  the  fourteenth  floor 
and  entered  a  large  room  filled  with  tobacco  smoke  and 
a  band  of  smooth-shaven,  blue  chinned  men  with  long 
unkempt  hair.  One  with  the  bluest  chin,  the  longest 
hair  and  the  blackest  pipe  listened  to  her  without  re- 
moving the  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

What  a  pity!  She  had  just  missed  it!  Only  an 
hour  ago  the  agent  had  sent  a  juvenile  lead  to  Louis 
James.  There  was  nothing  more  at  present,  but  he 
would  take  her  address.  She  gave  her  name  and  then 
hesitated.  He  had  written  the  "y"  of  Darnby  and  was 
waiting  pen  on  paper.  For  a  second  she  was  in  a  cloud 
of  confusion.  Where  ?  Not  with  Protony !  The  agent 
turned  inquiringly.  She  answered  desperately :  ' '  Lake 
Side  Hotel."  Very  good.  He  probably  would  have 
something  within  a  week  or  two. 

Why  had  she  given  the  Lake  Side  Hotel  as  her  ad- 
dress ?  Was  it  desperation  or  inspiration  ?  She  hardly 
knew.  She  had  lived  there,  certainly;  and  Ross'  offer 
of  assistance— made  what  now  seemed  long  ago — 


A  SAMARITAN  INTRUDER.  39 

darted  to  mind  at  the  critical  moment,  though  he 
had  not  been  considered  before.  Many  friends  in  Mis- 
souri were  mentally  rejected  as  likely  lenders  of  a  sum 
sufficient  to  meet  her  wants  until  she  should  have  found 
employment.  But  Ross,  of  whom  she  might  be  sure, 
had  not  occurred  to  her  until  the  eleventh  minute. 
It  was  certain  that  he  would  help  her,  but— she  saw 
a  public  telephone  as  the  elevator  stopped  at  the  ground 
floor.  Impulsively  she  entered  the  double  panelled  box, 
lifted  the  transmitter  and  ordered:  "Oakland  7778." 
At  central's  request  she  feverishly  slid  the  nickel  in 
the  slot  and  hearing  "Hello",  audaciously  called  for 
Mr.  Ross. 

'What  is  it?"     She  recognized  his  voice. 

'Mr.  Ross,  this  is  Laura  Ruhland." 

'Who?" 

'Laura— Mrs.  Darnby." 

'Yes,  oh,  yes;  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Darnby?" 
"Well,  thank  you.     I  expect  to  move  in  a  day  or 
two  and  meanwhile  I  took  the  liberty  of  giving  the 
Lake  Side  as  my  address.    Please  hold  any  letters  you 
may  receive." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 
"I— I— don't  know  just  yet." 

"Mrs.  Darnby,  I  wish  you  would  come  down  on  the 
next  train.  I  've  something  of  importance  to  tell  you. ' ' 
He  spoke  eagerly. 

In  thirty  minutes  Laura  met  Ross  at  the  entrance 
to  the  hotel.  He  was  waiting  for  her  and  extended  his 
hands  in  ardent  welcome.  The  clerk  bowed  politely, 
the  telegraph  operator  smiled  amiably ;  but  the  women 
in  the  foyer— it  was  too  early  for  the  men  to  be  there 
—were  variously  hostile.  Some  purposely  evaded 
recognition;  others  saluted  her  distantly  with  an  air 
of  cold  reproof;  still  others  acknowledged  her  pres- 
ence by  broad  stares  of  amazement.  At  these  wound- 
ing greetings  there  shot  through  Laura  a  feeling  of 
burning  resentment.  She  went  with  Ross  to  a  private 
parlor,  ready  to  accede  to  anything  he  might  suggest— 
anything,  so  that  she  could  retaliate  the  insults  of  these 
creatures. 


40  A  SAMARITAN  INTRUDER. 

Ross  escorted  her  to  a  richly  upholstered  chair  near 
a  window,  facing  south.  Taking  the  seat  she  glanced 
out.  The  sun  enveloped  the  gorgeous  green  lawn  in  a 
sumptuous  glow.  Beyond  the  verdant  expanse,  car- 
riages flitted  by,  the  wheels  and  horses'  paraphernalia 
glistening  like  a  mirror's  flash;  bicycles,  their  riders  in 
high-hued  costumes,  darted  past;  on  the  veranda, 
within  an  arm's  reach,  a  young  couple,  happy  and  hand- 
some, probably  newly  married,  promenaded.  The  bril- 
liancy of  the  scene  inspired  her  with  a  wish  to  remain 
there  where  she  could  see  it  always.  As  if  in  response 
to  her  unuttered  desire  Ross  confessed:  "I've  been 
watching  you  far  months.  I  know  that  your— your 
what's  his  name?— Oh,  Protony,  is  hard  up.  I've 
been  waiting  for  you  to  let  me  do  something  for  you. 
Come  back  here.  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about 
expenses.  Pay  your  bills  when  you  are  able.  I've 
had  something  more  in  mind.  I'm  thinking  of  organ- 
izing a  theatrical  company,  made  up  of  young,  well- 
bred  people,  with  you  at  the  head.  I've  often  backed 
such  enterprises  and  know  all  about  them.  My  idea 
is  to  play  the  Chicago  circuit,  that  is,  the  towns  around 
Chicago.  Now  what  do  you  think?" 

She  frankly  acknowledged  that  she  was  without 
money  and  thanked  him  for  his  invitation  to  stop  at 
the  hotel,  at  least  until  she  found  employment.  She 
feared  that  she  lacked  the  qualifications  for  leading  a 
company,  but  would  defer  to  his  judgment. 

It  was  settled  then.  She  would  remain.  A  quick 
whispered  consultation  with  the  clerk,  and  the  bell  boy 
accompanied  her  to  a  light,  roomy  chamber  on  the  third 
floor.  She  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfaction  in  informing  Pro- 
tony  that  the  bearer  would  pack  her  effects  for  con- 
veyance to  the  Lake  Side  Hotel.  The  note  given  the 
porter,  and  her  toilet  made,  she  read  until  dinner  time. 
All  the  men  were  glad  to  see  her.  They  shook  her 
hand  with  friendly  warmth:  Miss  Carr  and  Miss 
Rosenau  came  to  her  table  and  most  cordially  welcomed 
her.  Mrs.  Whitehead  bowed  curtly,  and  Laura  believed 
she  saw  the  effects  of  a  quarrel  in  the  woman's  eye,  a 
similar  sign  being  noticeable  in  Ross,  who  asked  if  he 


A  SAMARITAN  INTRUDER.  41 

could  do  anything  more  to  facilitate  her  installation, 
a  question  that  Mrs.  Whitehead  overheard  and  which 
deepened  her  look  of  displeasure.  Laura  divined  an 
intrigue  between  the  pair,  a  divination  which  was  con- 
firmed by  Mrs.  Whitehead 's  insultingly  bitter  manner 
toward  her  as  Ross'  attentions  were  massed  upon  his 
latest  guest.  But  Laura  decided  to  be  true  to  herself, 
to  hold  her  conscience  and  person  inviolate.  There 
had  come  to  her  from  the  depths  of  sub-consciousness 
the  white,  perennial  truth  that  genuine  strength  of 
mind,  of  volition,  of  talent,  proceed  from  purity;  that 
between  a  virtuous  genius  and  a  vitiated,  the  former 
is  the  greater,  the  more  permanent;  that  fortitude, 
health  of  body,  serenity  of  thought  are  predicated,  in 
women,  on  virtue. 

The  realization  of  this  grand  moral  law  had  come 
suddenly  and  she  wished  to  obey  it;  realizing,  too, 
that  the  woman  who  obeys  enhances  her  charm.  She 
perceived  that  she  had  become  for  Ross  an  attraction 
not  altogether  sensuous;  an  irresistible  quality  which 
Protony  had  felt  but  which  was  interpreted  differently 
by  the  two  men  so  opposite  in  character  and  tempera- 
ment. Protony  felt  its  mental  properties,  Ross  its 
physical  influence.  Both  would  have  her  as  companion ; 
both  were  too  selfish  for  matrimony. 


CHAPTER  V. 

AN  ENGAGEMENT. 

During  the  first  fortnight  Ross  was  discreetly  assidu- 
ous in  his  attentions,  but  Laura  tactfully  held  him  dis- 
tant. Besides,  she  was  applying  an  idea  that  had 
occurred  to  her  the  day  of  her  return  to  the  hotel.  She 
got  a  public  library  card — Ross  was  the  guarantor — 
and  was  making  a  study  of  the  literature  of  the  theatre. 
She  read  much,  memorized  strong  roles,  declaimed  in 
private. 

In  the  third  week  Protony  sent  a  letter.  He  asked  per- 
mission to  call.  She  made  no  answer.  Then  came  a  note 
from  the  dramatic  agency  in  Dearborn  street.  An  en- 
gagement with  a  burlesque  company, ' '  The  Pink  Owls. ' ' 
The  offer  was  submitted  to  Ross,  who  earnestly  advised 
her  not  to  accept  it.  "With  your  attractive  person- 
ality you  would  be  a  fine  card  and  they  would  pay  you 
a  good  salary,  but  once  identified  with  that  kind  of  a 
show  you  are  lost  to  better  companies.  Managers  of 
the  legitimate  would  not  want  you.  It's  rare  that  a 
woman  works  up  from  a  provincial  burlesque  com- 
pany; she  frequently  descends  to  one.  Don't  take  it, 
no  matter  what  they  offer  to  pay  you." 

He  simply  affirmed  what  she  had  surmised  and  de- 
clined the  engagement  in  an  appreciative  note  of 
thanks.  She  also  was  thankful  to  Ross,  who,  however, 
was  constantly  vitiating  her  gratitude.  Careful  and 
never  compromising  in  the  presence  of  others  his  atti- 
tude was  embarrassing  whenever  she  found  herself 
alone  with  him.  Once  when  he  followed  her  to  the 
park  she  was  compelled  to  repel  him  pointedly.  As  a 
rule,  though,  she  parried  his  importunities  deftly.  Now 
she  feigned  not  to  understand ;  again  she  laughed  good- 

(42) 


AN  ENGAGEMENT.  43 

naturedly  and  fled  inoffensively.  One  day  he  ex- 
tended an  invitation  to  attend  the  theatre.  This  she 
accepted,  feeling  sure  of  herself  and  knowing  that  it 
was  not  unusual  with  him  to  invite  the  women  of  the 
hotel  to  tihe  play. 

Among  the  theatrical  people  in  the  lobby,  grouped 
on  the  side  opposite  the  box  office,  sufficiently  conspicu- 
ous to  be  conveniently  observed  by  the  incoming  audi- 
ence, was  Protony,  drawn-faced  and  wan-eyed.  The 
sight  of  Laura  stirred  him  almost  to  dispossession.  He 
dropped  his  hat  in  agitation  and  followed  her  with 
looks  of  devouring  attention.  Coming  out  after  the 
performance  she  saw  him  in  the  same  place  and  appar- 
ently he  was  in  the  same  state  of  mental  disquietude. 
Laura  designedly  took  no  notice  of  him ;  and  Ross  had 
not  seen  him.  She  guessed  that  he  would  follow  them 
and  was  confirmed  in  her  conjecture  when  in  entering 
the  vaulted  railway  station  she  turned.  He  stood  in 
front  of  the  hotel  that  faced  the  station  entrance.  She 
confessed  to  herself  her  satisfaction.  It  was  the  grati- 
fication perennial  in  woman  when  she  is  made  aware 
that  man  is  thrall  to  her.  Laura  understood  his  condi- 
tion ;  although  he  could  not  live  with  her  or  without  her, 
he  was  more  wretched  without  her  than  he  had  been 
with  her,  his  consuming  ambition  and  thorough  selfish- 
ness notwithstanding.  It  was  obvious  that  her  beauty, 
heightened  by  an  assumed  hauteur,  had  quickly  gen- 
erated in  him  passion  and  jealousy. 

She  expected  the  card  he  sent  up  next  day.  Word 
was  sent  down  that  Miss  Ruhland  would  see  him  pres- 
ently, in  the  blue  parlor.  She  looked  at  the  clock, 
took  up  a  book  and  read  twenty-five  minutes.  Then 
she  descended  to  the  first  floor,  but  before  going  to  the 
appointed  room  she  stopped  leisurely  to  exchange  com- 
monplaces with  several  of  the  guests.  He  was  seated 
in  an  humble  attitude,  hat  in  hand,  head  and  back  bent. 
He  shot  up  instantly  she  entered. 

Laura,  completely  self-possessed,  and  in  a  perfectly 
unconcerned  manner,  allowed  him  to  take  her  hand, 
which  he  held  sheerly  absorbed, 

"Well?" 


44  AN  ENGAGEMENT. 

The  curt  and  cool  interrogation  straightened  him. 
A  little  nettled,  he  asked  her  to  be  seated.  He  had  a 
business  proposition  to  offer— the  word  business  was 
stressed.  Catherine  Fix,  daughter  of  Mrs.  Fix,  the 
society  leader,  and  Craig  Fix,  the  rich  soap  manufac- 
turer, had  written  a  play  which  had  been  sent  to  him 
for  revision.  The  father  would  pay  Protony  hand- 
somely for  the  work  of  putting  the  piece  in  scene.  The 
drama  as  given  to  him  was  impossible.  The  theme  was 
not  unoriginal  and  there  were  two  viable  characters,  but 
the  thing  needed  reconstruction.  Therefore  he  would 
appear  as  collaborator.  Cooley's  Theatre  had  been 
engaged  for  a  fortnight,  where  the  production  would 
take  place.  He  already  had  outlined  the  charac- 
ters and  was  to  engage  the  cast.  He  offered  her  a 
leading  role.  She  had  listened  with  increasing  in- 
terest. The  climax— his  offer  of  an  important  part 
— was  an  unexpected  proposal.  She  remained  perfectly 
self-contained,  however,  in  no  movement  or  expression 
betraying  her  gratification.  She  thanked  him  formally, 
but  as  she  was  considering  an  engagement  offered  a 
week  ago  she  couldn't  commit  herself  at  once.  She 
hoped  an  immediate  acceptance  or  rejection  was  not 
imperative  ? 

No,  there  was  no  hurry.  It  would  be  at  least  a  fort- 
night before  the  play  could  be  made  ready  for  distri- 
bution among  the  cast. 

Very  good,  then,  she  would  give  a  definite  answer 
in  time  to  meet  necessary  arrangements.  She  arose, 
thus  suggesting  that  the  meeting  was  at  an  end.  Not 
a  note  of  familiarity,  not  a  word  implying  the  slightest 
intimacy  had  been  touched  in  a  conversation  which  had 
the  mannered  tone  of  a  business  conference.  While  she 
had  held  'herself  fully  possessed,  his  composure  had  been 
imperfect.  His  feelings  had  been  revealed,  now  by 
a  tremolo  accent,  again  by  a  restive  movement  of  the 
eyes  with  a  nervous  flutter  of  their  lashes.  At  the 
parlor  door,  as  they  were  separating,  Ross  came  up, 
bowed  shortly  to  Protony,  greeted  Laura  with  a  light- 
ened expression  in  which  there  was  an  overt  suggestion 
of  admiration,  and  engaged  her  in  a  low-toned  talk, 


£B  ENGAGEMENT.  45 

the  while  walking  toward  the  lift,  his  head  bent  confi- 
dentially. Both  Laura  and  Protony  turned;  he,  just 
before  going  out  of  the  main  entrance ;  she,  when  about 
to  step  into  the  lift.  Both  had  abandoned  their  affec- 
tation of  reserve.  He  read  retaliative  satisfaction  in 
her  face;  she,  jealousy  and  dejection  in  his.  She  pitied 
him— the  pity  one  feels  for  a  child  that  is  in  pain. 
And,  after  all,  she  would  have  been  content  to  be  with 
him,  for  he  was  an  agreeable,  instructive  and  intel- 
lectual companion,  who  might  have  given  her  and  him- 
self a  further  reach  in  the  affairs  of  the  world.  But 
his  abnormal  selfishness— a  vice  which  she  now  ab- 
horred—repelled her.  Nevertheless,  it  was  gratifying 
to  see  that  her  charm  was  more  potent  than  his  egoism, 
so  she  was  not  displeased  when  the  bell  boy  again 
brought  his  card  the  next  morning.  The  first  glance 
told  her  that  he  had  spent  a  wretched  night ;  his  cheeks 
were  hectic;  his  breath  of  a  feverish  temperature. 

He  did  not  respond  to  her  "Good  morning,"  and 
they  silently  took  seats  that  looked  upon  the  pictur- 
esque drive.  He  broke  silence  with:  "I  congratulate 
you  on  having  found  a  friend  with  plenty  of  money." 

The  remark,  though  she  knew  it  was  impelled  by 
bitter  jealousy,  hurt  her. 

She  replied  resentfully :  "  Thank  you.  You  are  very 
kind.  The  friend  you  refer  to  is  one  who  does  not 
believe  that  the  world  was  made  for  him  alone.  He 
is  not  so  self-centered  as  to  be  unmindful  of  everything 
and  everybody  but  himself.  He  is  not  likely  to  turn  me 
out  of  doors  because  something  goes  wrong  with  him. 
He  is  a  man  and  not  an  unreliable  weakling." 

The  last  sentence  told— the  truth  of  it  made  it 
telling.  Prom  offensive  he  became  defensive ;  his  pupils 
had  left  him;  he  bad  been  haunted  by  creditors:  had 
been  turned  away  from  every  door  in  La  Salle  Street ; 
had  seen  the  possibility  of  success  disappear  for  ever. 
He  had  been  despondent,  utterly  discouraged.  He 
stopped— 

Laura  rounded  her  retort  with:  "Yes,  as  I  say,  you 
thought  only  of  yourself." 

Admitted.     But  wasn't  his  selfishness  extenuated 


46  AN  ENGAGEMENT. 

by  the  distressing  circumstances?  Come,  let  her  be 
considerate— he  uttered  the  word  in  a  supplicative  key 
—and  he  would  show  that  his  ambition  was  subordi- 
nate to  his  love  for  her.  A  rush  of  misfortune  had 
upset  him  temporarily.  Never  again  would  he  allow 
himself  to  be  carried  away  by  the  stress  of  adversity. 
Now  he  was  sure  of  success.  The  play  upon  which  he 
was  working  must  succeed  and  it  was  virtually  his 
own.  True,  Miss  Fix  had  furnished  him  with  a  theme, 
but  he  had  made  the  play.  Fix's  dialogues  had  been 
entirely  rewritten;  all  but  two  characters  had  been 
extinguished.  The  cast  had  been  selected.  Besides 
Laura,  two  of  his  best  students  would  be  in  the  pro- 
duction. For  the  rest,  popular  professionals  were  en- 
gaged. 

Volatile,  he  jumped  from  a  humble  amatory  mood 
to  enthusiasm  of  the  theatre.  Laura  was  vexed  and 
amused  in  turn.  Her  admiration  for  the  refined  artist 
was  alloyed  by  her  contempt  for  the  man.  At  parting 
he  relapsed  to  an  imploring  attitude.  She  treated  him 
then  as  a  teacher  a  repentant  lad.  He  came  again  at 
the  end  of  the  week  to  announce  that  the  play  would 
be  read  to  the  cast  the  following  Friday,  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  At  that  hour  Laura  ascended  a  flight 
of  stairs  to  the  left  of  a  pretty  lobby,  and  opened  a 
door  labeled  "Manager's  Office."  Protony  and  a  semi- 
circle of  men  and  women  were  waiting.  There  were 
hurried  introductions,  of  which  Laura  had  no  impres- 
sion save  the  presentation  to  Miss  Fix,  a  nervous,  shriv- 
eled, spinster-like  woman  with  a  .high  thin  voice. 

Protony  read  the  play  to  intermittent  applause,  al- 
ways led  by  John  Burton,  especially  engaged  for  the 
production  at  seven  hundred  dollars  a  week,  it  was 
whispered  to  Laura.  The  reading  ended,  Miss  Fix  and 
Protony  were  effusively  congratulated.  Laura's  con- 
ception of  the  piece  was  nebulous.  She  had  been  un- 
able to  concentrate  her  thoughts.  She  had  heard  Pro- 
tony 's  voice— that  sensitive  and  cultured  organ  with 
its  every  shade  of  elocutionary  appreciation,  notwith- 
standing its  veiled  quality— but  its  meaning  was  lost 
to  her.  Amid  the  buzz  and  fragmentary  talk  which  fol- 


AN  ENGAGEMENT.  47 

lowed  the  felicitations,  Protony  handed  Laura  her  part. 
"You  are  to  play  the  broker's  daughter.  The  first 
rehearsal  will  be  called  a  week  from  to-day.  If  agree- 
able I  '11  call  to-morrow  and  go  over  the  part  with  you. ' ' 

She  answered,  "Yes",  and  thanked  him.  At  the 
hotel  she  at  once  buried  herself  in  the  role.  The  char- 
acter was  conventional;  all  the  parts  were  so  in  "The 
Millionaire"  except  the  title  role.  This  was  an  Irish- 
man who  had  accumulated  money  and  much  political 
experience.  Originally  a  humble  laborer  of  very  lim- 
ited needs,  well  disposed,  easily  contented.  Then, 
progressively,  purse-proud,  arrogant,  aggressive,  irre- 
ligious and  disdainful  of  everything  that  lacked  the 
mark  of  wealth.  He  was  set  in  a  feebly  familiar  fable ; 
a  daughter  in  love  with  a  young  man  opposed  by  the 
father,  who  insists  that  the  "garril"  marry  his  business 
partner,  a  'heavily-mustached,  scrowling  fellow,  who 
utters  the  simplest  word  in  deep,  ominous  tones.  The 
"garril"  refuses.  The  heavily-mustached  gentleman 
concocts  a  scheme  to  ruin  the  father  on  the  Board  of 
Trade.  The  nice  young  man — hitherto  devoid  of  astute- 
ness—hears of  the  plan.  Although  he  allowed  it  to  be 
consummated  he  takes  advantage  of  his  knowledge  to 
win  exactly  what  the  millionaire  loses.  The  father, 
broken  in  spirit  and  in  dollars,  consents  to  the  marriage 
at  the  final  curtain.  Protony 's  judgment  had  led  him 
to  develop  the  main  character.  In  deft  touches  he  had 
indicated  the  man's  antecedents,  the  original  warmth 
of  heart,  his  native  wit,  the  source  of  his  wealth.  And 
for  spectacular  effect  he  had  decided  to  put  the  trader 's 
hall  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  with  its  raging  excitement, 
on  the  stage. 

Laura  -saw  that  her  role  was  about  as  subordinate  to 
the  millionaire  as  were  the  other  characters;  but  she 
divined  that  the  daughter  could  be  made  sympathetic, 
even  winsome,  by  accentuating  the  conciliatory  spirit 
which  moved  between  father  and  lover,  by  drawing  the 
better  nature  from  her  untutored  parent.  By  modi- 
fying and  transposing  she  drew  a  parallel;  the  quasi- 
savage  father  and  the  gentle  daughter  were  the  Ingo- 
mar  and  the  Parthenia  of  the  German  play,  "Der  Sohn 


48  AN  ENGAGEMENT. 

der  Wildniss"— she  had  a  copy  of  Robert  Ringold's 
translation.  Protony  admired  the  parallelism,  which 
had  not  occurred  to  him,  who  was  so  bound  up  in  the 
Irishman:  "I  see  you  have  read  and  studied  to  advan- 
tage," he  remarked  complacently. 

"Thanks  to  you." 

The  exchange  of  compliments  gratified  him,  who 
was  in  the  throes  of  jealousy  and  unrequited  affection. 
They  passed  an  unruffled  afternoon.  Laura  was  com- 
pletely occupied  with  the  play.  Protony  had  wished 
that  she  had  offered  some  token  of  a  perfect  and  perma- 
nent reconciliation ;  still,  for  want  of  better,  it  pleased 
him  intimately  to  see  her  so  intelligently  and  apprecia- 
tively interested  in  a  thing  near  and  dear  to  him— she, 
his  pupil. 

From  ten  o  'clock  next  morning  there  were  two  cha- 
otic hours  on  the  dim  stage  of  Cooley's  Theatre,  caused 
by  the  first  rehearsal  of  the  first  act  of  "The  Million- 
aire." None  of  the  cast  knew  the  lines  save  Laura, 
and  she  was  imperfect.  The  act  was  walked  through, 
the  players  repeating  the  dialogue  from  the  typewritten 
copies  in  hand.  It  was  merely  a  stage  introduction  of 
the  characters  when  scenes  and  positions  were  outlined. 
In  the  afternoon  at  two  o  'clock  the  second  act  was  taken 
up  and  the  last  act  the  following  day.  At  the  third  pro- 
bation the  actors  had  memorized  their  speeches. 

Two  days  before  the  date  set  for  the  production, 
Protony  felt  that  he  would  be  too  nervous  to  manage 
the  stage  on  the  opening  night ;  and  as  the  time  neared 
for  the  public  test  his  burning  desire  for  success,  com- 
bined with  absolute  terror  of  failure,  had  intensified  to 
such  a  degree  that  he  feared  he  would  not  have  control 
of  himself  or  the  company.  The  stage  management  de- 
volved on  John  Burton,  who  had  mastered  the  title 
part  in  a  week. 

A  fortnight  from  the  first  rehearsal  "The  Million- 
aire" was  ready  for  presentation. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  PLAY  IS  PEODUCED. 

"Half  hour!    Half  hour!    Half  hour!    Half  hour!" 

It  was  the  shrill  voice  of  the  short  and  sharp  call 
boy  who  uttered  the  cry  as  he  rapped  at  the  doors  of 
the  dressing  rooms. 

Either  a  "yes"  or  a  "here"  was  the  response  to 
the  knock.  Every  active  participant  was  found  to  be 
in  the  theatre  thirty  minutes  before  the  curtain. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  lad  made  another 
round  with  calls  of  "Fifteen  minutes!"  "Fifteen  min- 
utes!" "Fifteen  minutes!"  "Fifteen  minutes!" 

When  the  orchestra  was  ready  to  intone  the  first 
note  the  boy  passed  the  final  warning:  "Overture!" 
"Overture!"  "Overture!"  "Overture." 

"All  right,"  the  lad  reported  to  John  Burton,  who 
repeated  "All  right"  through  a  tube  placed  among  a 
cluster  of  gutta-percha  buttons  and  iron  knobs  in  the  first 
wing  to  the  right  of  the  stage.  Instantly  a  light  and  joy 
ous  melody  filled  the  theatre.  Starting  with  a  dash  and 
proceeding  with  a  lilt  and  swing,  it  soon  subsided  to 
an  air  of  rare  sweetness,  then  a  merry  key  was  again 
struck,  a  strain  of  lively  badinage,  of  caressing  activity. 
It  was  a  captivating  parody,  yet  beneath  its  seductive 
banter  was  a  throb  of  pure  emotion,  of  sincere  rever- 
ence for  the  Greeks  which  swelled  forth  in  the  Elysian 
finale.  The  overture  to  Von  Suppe's  "Die  Schoene 
Helene"  ended.  Burton  stepped  to  the  center  of  the 
stage  and  ordered:  "Clear!"  All  but  two  actors  dis- 
appeared. Burton,  from  a  coulisse,  touched  a  button. 
A  red  lamp,  hung  high,  gleamed  in  front.  The  two 
players  nervously  assumed  a  stipulated  pose.  The  cur- 
tain ascended. 


50  A  PLAY  IS  PKODUCED. 

In  Miss  Fix's  box,  back  of  her  numerous  friends 
and  concealed  from  the  audience,  Protony  sat.  When 
he  heard  Burton's  "Clear!"  he  looked  at  the  auditors 
appealingly.  The  house  was  filled  to  the  last  seat  in 
the  second  balcony.  There  were  fifteen  hundred  heads 
ranged  amphitheatrically  and  swaying  indolently,  as 
leaves  in  sunlight.  Protony  recognized  many  people, 
but  they  appeared  to  have  changed.  Their  faces 
seemed  to  express  disdain,  mockery,  severity,  skep- 
ticism—all, to  Protony 's  imagination,  challenged  and 
doubted  success.  A  score  of  opera  glasses  were  turned 
toward  his  box — and  they  looked  like  leveled  pistols. 
Away  in  the  rear  he  discovered  the  anxious  faces  of 
an  old  woman,  a  young  woman  and  two  young  men; 
his  mother,  sister  and  brothers,  relatives  he  had  not 
seen  for  a  long  time,  whom  he  scarce  acknowledged, 
though  they  lived  in  the  city  far  out  among  the  humble 
and  laborious  Irish.  A  feeling  at  once  of  remorse  and 
gratitude  seized  him  at  the  sight.  They  were  watchful 
of  his  career;  proud  of  him  in  an  awesome  way,  no 
doubt,  and  he  had  never  given  them  a  thought,  so  ab- 
sorbed was  he  in  himself— in  ambition,  in  personal 
desire.  But  pitted  against  those  four  well-wishers 
how  many  were  indifferent,  even  malevolent!  The 
men  directly  in  front — those  whom  he  could  see  dis- 
tinctly—looked as  if  they  were  burdened  with  mort- 
gages—material and  mental.  They  evidently  had 
•brought  into  the  theatre  their  troubles— anxieties,  dis- 
tractions, pre-occupations,  dislikes,  contempts.  Pro- 
tony  now  realized  very  nearly  what  it  meant  to  be  a 
dramatist.  He  must  dispel  the  prejudices,  the  worri- 
ments  of  these  people ;  must  remove  from  them  the  cere- 
ments of  the  carking  cares  of  the  outside  world  whence 
they  came;  must  lift  them  out  of  themselves,  in  fine; 
must  make  them  all  of  one  mind  which  shall  pronounce 
"The  Millionaire"  a  success.  Again  he  looked  at  the 
audience—that  sea  of  eyes,  how  defiant!  He  had  an 
impulse  to  postpone  the  production,  to  hold  the  curtain. 

Too  late!  The  final  note  in  the  orchestlra  had 
sounded.  A  bell  rang.  The  curtain  rose.  There  was 
profound  silence  for  what  seemed  an  aeon  of  time. 


A  PLAY  IS  PRODUCED.  51 

Then  he  heard  a  voice  muffled  and  indistinct,  lost,  seem- 
ingly, in  the  immensity  of  th'e  auditorium.  An  actor 
had  uttered  the  first  lines  of  the  play  Would  that  he 
could  silence  him !  All  the  imperfections  of  the  work 
surged  to  his  mind.  The  doubts,  the  uncertainties  of 
several  situations,  instantly  hardened  to  convictions  of 
absolute  faults.  He  was  sure  the  thing  would  end  in 
failure.  But  what  could  he  do?  He  felt  imprisoned 
there,  in  the  box. 

An  inspiration;  he  would  put  himself  in  the  place 
of  an  average  spectator,  would  judge  the  piece  from  a 
cold-blooded,  impartial  standpoint,  as  if  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  production ;  had  not  written  or  corrected 
a  line,  and  not  rehearsed  a  scene  of  the  drama.  For  a 
bare  moment  he  was  oddly  impressed;  but  only  for 
a  moment.  He  found  it  impossible  to  be  objective. 
He  could  not  listen.  A  thousand  incoherent  nothings 
flitted  through  his  heated  brain.  Everything  dis- 
tracted him.  The  flutter  of  a  handkerchief;  the  turn 
of  a  head ;  the  wave  of  a  fan ;  the  frou-frou  of  a  dress ; 
a  cough— these  diverted  his  intention.  Directly  be^ 
neath  there  were  whispers:  "What  did  you  get  for 
your  wheat?" 

"Seventy-two,  and  then  I  sold  fifty  short  at  two 
and  a  quarter." 

In  the  next  box  a  young  fellow  murmured  to  his 
pretty  companion:  "Oh,  it's  stupid.  Why  don't  they 
do  something?" 

An  old  man  in  the  front  row  coughed  and  this  be- 
came contagious.  A  score  seemed  to  be  simultaneously 
coughing  so  that  the  voices  of  the  actors  could  not  pen- 
etrate the  noise.  Now  the  dialogue  did  not  carry 
across  the  footlights.  The  gallery  grew  restive.  Some 
one  on  high  shouted :  "Oh,  speak  up !  we  can't  hear  you." 

Protony  felt  himself  giving  away.  His  nervous  ten- 
sion was  sinking  to  positive  terror.  He  jumped  from 
the  chair,  hurried  along  the  mural  aisle  unobserved  and 
bolted  out  of  the  lobby.  The  cool  atmosphere  brought 
him  to  a  nearly  normal  realization  of  things.  But  he  was 
mentally  exhausted  and  after  walking  from  La  Salle 
street  to  Clark  street  and  back  again,  he  stepped  into 


52  A  PLAY  IS  PKODUCED. 

a  saloon,  near  the  La  Salle  street  corner,  that  had  near 
the  entrance  a  stone  cutter's  statute  of  Robert  Burns. 
He  fell  into  a  chair  at  a  miniature  table,  asked  for 
whisky,  drank  the  stimulating  poison  and  picked  up 
a  newspaper.  He  read,  but  had  no  sense  of  what  he 
was  reading.  With  the  journal  close  to  his  eyes  his 
mind  persisted  in  presenting  the  scene  he  had  just  left. 
Again  he  heard  the  price  of  wheat,  the  remarks  of 
"Oh,  it's  stupid,"  the  coughs,  the  ominous  restiveness 
of  the  gallery;  he  saw  the  mechanical  movements  of 
the  actors.  Well,  -as  he  could  not  get  away  from  the 
play  he  must  go  back  and  brave  it  out.  Going  up  the 
lobby  he  was  lifted  to  a  new  emotion,  prompted  by  a 
blast  of  applause.  He  leaped  to  the  entrance  of  the 
auditorium  and  saw  the  second  act  in  progress— the 
Board  of  Trade  scene.  The  stage  was  crowded  with  an 
excited  mob  which  was  giving  a  pulsating  picture  of 
a  panicky  wheat  market,  and  the  audience,  recognizing 
the  truth  of  the  illustration,  was  wildly  approving.  The 
animated  act  held  the  house  tense  to  the  end. 

The  drop  down,  there  was  a  roar  in  which 
"Author!"  "Fix!"  "Protony!"  were  salient.  Miss 
Fix,  agitated,  looked  to  Protony,  who,  as  white  as  she 
was  red,  beckoned  with  his  finger.  She  followed  him 
to  the  stage,  wihere  Burton  drew  the  curtain  at  the  left 
corner  and  motioned  the  spinster  to  step  before  the 
audience.  With  an  awkward  gait  she  shuffled  toward 
the  lights,  in  her  confusion  not  seeing  the  hand  which 
Protony,  who  was  beside  her,  had  the  self-possession 
to  offer.  Protony  bowed  gracefully;  Fix  made  an 
angular  gesture  with  her  head.  The  spectators  were 
tumultuous.  An  urchin  in  Paradise  demanded 
"Speech!"  "Speech!"  The  cry  was  taken  up  insist- 
ently. Fix,  altogether  unstrung,  looked  helplessly  at 
Protony.  A  week  ago  just  such  a  contingency  had 
occurred  to  the  latter  wihen  an  opposite  line  from 
"The  Tempest"  came  to  memory.  He  signaled  silence 
with  uplifted  hand.  The  clamor  subsided  to  the  ripple 
of  gloved  applause,  then  ceased  entirely.  In  a  voice 
not  free  from  tremulousness  but  distinct  withal,  he 
adapted  Shakespeare's  words: 


A  PLAY  IS  PRODUCED.  53 

"The  only  answer  we  can  make  is  thanks  and 
thanks  and  ever  thanks. ' ' 

He  bowed,  took  Miss  Fix's  hand  and  slowly  sidled 
from  view.  Directly  they  were  out  of  sight  the  ap- 
plause was  renewed  and  Fix  and  Protony  stopped; 
they  supposed  the  audience  wished  for  their  reappear- 
ance. They  turned  to  reappear  when  Burton  held  up 
his  hand.  "Stop!"  "Wait!"  "Wait!"  Penetrating 
the  patter  of  hands  there  was  now  the  audible  cry: 
"Burton!"  "Darnby!"  "Burton!"  "Darnby!" 

"Send  for  Miss  Darnby,  quick,"  Burton  ordered. 
Laura  came  on,  wondering  what  was  wanted. 

"They  want  us  out  there."  Burton  called  one  of 
his  assistants,  who  held  the  curtain  while  Laura  stepped 
forward  in  a  hand  clasp  with  the  handsome  actor.  They 
made  a  concinnous  pair;  he  *tall,  sinewy,  symmetrical 
and  manly;  she,  on  a  line  with  Iris  shoulder,  sinuous, 
graceful  and  womanly.  The  house  shouted,  and  in  the 
vociferation  a  fine  ear  could  detect  a  shade  of  sensuous 
delight. 

The  third  act  pleased  the  gallery ;  the  parquet  had 
some  pleasure  in  the  work  of  Laura.  The  final  scene 
dragged  and  made  a  dispiriting  impression. 

Protony,  bewildered,  uncertain  in  the  matter  of  the 
result,  stood  near  the  box  office  with  the  treasurer  as 
the  audience  passed  through  the  lobby.  He  scrutinized 
faces  eagerly,  trying  to  read  the  verdict  of  the  play. 
The  countenance  of  the  average  auditor  told  him  noth- 
ing—it was  nonchalant,  expressionless.  The  remarks 
were  few  and  non-committal.  Phelon,  with  his  large, 
voluptuous  blond  wife  on  his  arm,  nodded  pleasantly, 
saying,  in  passing:  "Not  at  all  bad,  dear  boy."  Pro- 
tony  was  electrified  by  this  suggestion  of  a  favorable 
critique;  so  elated,  that  he  was  emboldened  to  arrest 
Burrows,  who  walked  along  the  lobby  with  bowed 
head— as  if  in  perplexed  thought— and  who  was  not 
given  to  venturing  opinions  in  advance  of  publication. 
"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Burrows?" 

"It  isn't  worth  a  damn,"  replied  the  critic  irritably. 

Protony  fell  from  exuberance  to  incertitude.  He 
stood  there,  his  emotions  tense  and  horribly  mingled, 


54  A  PLAY  IS  PRODUCED. 

until  the  lights  were  extinguished.  Then  he  hurried 
to  the  stage  entrance,  where  he  found  Laura  waiting 
for  him.  The  certainty  of  a  personal  success  had  made 
her  joyful  and  she  saw  the  world  through  purple  lenses. 
She  half  convinced  him  that  the  play  was  safely 
launched.  Burrows'  remark  she  dismissed  with  the 
observation  that  he  was  inveterately  brusque. 

Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  he  bade  her  good  night,  his 
subtle,  doubting  nature,  inevitably  prone  to  conjure  up 
double  contingencies,  threw  him  anew  into  feverish  per- 
plexities. By  the  time  he  had  reached  his  room  success 
was  no  longer  probable— it  was  impossible.  The  vocif- 
erous reception  of  the  Board  of  Trade  scene  was  can- 
celled by  the  slowness  of  the  first  act,  the  stupidity  of 
the  third  and  the  unsatisfactory  fourth.  He  again 
heard  the  restive  gallery ;  once  more  he  saw  the  hostile 
faces  in  the  parquet.  He  disrobed  mechanically,  his 
body  feverish,  his  head  aflame.  Between  the  sheets 
he  wihirled  mentally.  If  the  play  fell,  he  would  lose 
the  little  prestige  left  him.  In  the  circumstances,  what 
could  he  do?  Seek  an  engagement  with  a  company  as 
general  utility?  Impossible!  That  were  a  confession 
of  defeat.  No ;  that  would  not  do.  He  would  organize 
a  company  and  go  on  the  road  with  plays  once  popular 
in  large  cities  but  never  seen  in  towns ;  indeed,  he  might 
try  one  or  two  of  Ringold's.  He  would— here  Laura 
leaped  to  mind  and  the  thought  of  her  caused  him 
poignant  anguish.  Himself  always  uppermost,  she  had 
not  occurred  to  him  in  these  night  r amblings.  He  had 
tried  to  restore  their  former  relations.  A  failure  at  the 
theatre  he  feared  would  nullify  such  a  possibility.  This 
fresh  phase  of  the  general  fear  burned  him.  He  turned 
from  one  side  to  the  other ;  threw  off  the  covers ;  rear- 
ranged the  pillows  again  and  again;  got  up  to  lower 
the  window  still  further  and  in  passing  the  toilet  case 
saw  a  decanter  half-filled  with  whisky.  He  seized  the 
squat  bottle,  placed  the  end  of  its  thin  neck  to  his  mouth 
and  drank  the  liquor  as  if  it  had  been  water.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour— half  an  hour — he  scarce  knew  how 
long,  his  mind  became  blurred ;  then  unconscious. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
SUCCESS  OR  FAILURE? 

He  emerged  to  lucidity  by  degrees,  but  his  head  was 
heavy,  his  body  dry  and  hot.  Struggling  to  a  sitting 
posture,  his  stomach  seemed  leaden;  misplaced.  Near 
the  decanter — the  sight  of  it  nauseated  him — the  small, 
circular  nickel-plated  timepiece  indicated  ten  o'clock. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  rise ;  but  the  morning  papers 
— as  this  thought  came  to  him  he  jumped  to  the  floor 
and  got  into  his  clothes  with  trembling  jerks,  and  hur- 
ried to  the  street.  Not  a  newsboy  was  in  sight— evi- 
dently they  had  all  sold  out.  The  clear  sunlit  air  partly 
dissolved  the  mismatic  shroud  in  which  he  had  risen. 
Two  squares  down,  at  a  corner,  projecting  from  the 
extremities  of  the  curb-stone  he  espied  a  news  stand. 
With  nervous,  impatient  strides  he  made  for  it.  Of  the 
five  morning  papers  copies  of  three  were  unsold,  The 
Interior,  The  Times  and  The  Advent;  The  Forum,  The 
Daily  Spirit  and  The  Recorder  were  not  to  be  had.  He 
crossed  the  street  in  bounds,  entered  a  saloon,  ordered 
a  cocktail,  fell  into  a  chair  and  turned  the  leaves  of 
The  Interior  for  the  editorial  page.  The  last  column 
was  headed  "Amusements"  and  directly  under  the  cap- 
tion "The  Stedman  Season"  a  long  prospectus  of  the 
plays  and  players  which  the  New  York  managers  would 
present  at  Cooley's  Theatre  next  month.  Beneath 
this,  a  brief  and  off-hand  notice  of  "The  Millionaire". 
The  critic  thought  a  unique  idea  had  been  marred  by 
wholly  incompetent  literary  treatment.  Except  the 
mechanical  effects,  the  presentation  of  the  theme  was 
not  even  commonplace— it  was  amateurish.  Burton's 
work  was  praised;  Laura's  adulated.  Here— Miss 
Darnby— was  a  fine  talent  that  should  be  properly  de- 

(56) 


56  SUCCESS  OE  FAILUEE. 

veloped.  So  far,  the  lady  had  been  misdirected,  had 
lacked  opportunity.  That  was  all— a  contemptuous 
condemnation. 

Protony's  hands  trembled,  not  from  last  night's 
whisky,  but  from  Burrows'  disdainful  shafts.  It  was 
several  minutes  before  he  could  summon  sufficient  for- 
titude to  open  The  Times.  The  lukewarm,  indefinite 
decision,  leaning  toward  a  possible  success  and  ex- 
pressed in  a  strictly  reportorial  vein,  gave  him  but 
little  comfort.  The  Advent's  judgment,  written  in  the 
characteristic  manner  of  a  provincial  reviewer,  was 
cautiously  neutral.  Burton  was  ' '  strong, ' '  Miss  Darnby 
"good",  the  support  "acceptable".  Leaving  the  news- 
papers on  the  table,  Protony  went  out,  impregnated 
with  an  aching  doubt.  But  there  was  Phelon— what 
had  he  written?  After  all,  The  Forum  was  the  pre- 
dominant journalistic  force  in  matters  theatrical.  The 
most  important  opinion,  then,  was  yet  to  be  read; 
besides,  there  were  The  Daily  Spirit,  The  Recorder  and 
the  evening  papers.  Four  squares  brought  him  to  an- 
other periodical  stand,  but  the  morning  editions  were 
sold.  Too  impatient  to  walk  the  short  distance  to  the 
business  center,  he  took  a  tram  car  to  Randolph  Street, 
where  he  descended  and  hurried  to  the  Sherman  House. 

Transient  guests  as  a  whole  do  not  rise  early,  for 
they  retire  late — and  they  read  at  their  last  conven- 
ience; so  there  was  a  mass  of  newspapers— local  and 
out-of-town— piled  in  square  rows  on  a  long  counter 
next  the  cigar  case.  Protony  seized  The  Forum,  The 
Daiy  Spirit  and  the  Recorder,  threw  down  a  dime  and, 
without  waiting  for  the  change,  hastened  to  a  red  plush 
chair  in  the  east  corridor.  Under  the  heading  "Music 
and  the  Drama"  The  Forum  contained  half  a  column 
devoted  to  "The  Millionaire."  The  first  sentence 
thrilled  Protony :  "Clarence  Protony  and  Caroline  Fix 
did  not  disappoint  their  friends  at  Cooley's  last  even- 
ing. They  succeeded  in  interesting  everybody  with 
their  play,  'The  Millionaire,'  which,  in  the  consecrated 
phrase  of  a  local  mediocrity,  was  'an  unqualified  suc- 
cess'." 

The  pleasurable  throb  made  by  this  approval  was 


SUCCESS  OR  FAILURE?  57 

intensified  by  the  gratification  of  the  fling  at  Burrows 
—the  "local  mediocrity"  was  Phelon's  stamp  for  The 
Interior's  dramatic  editor.  The  story  of  the  play— Phe- 
lon  thought— was  simple  yet  original  and  it  was  skill- 
fully developed.  The  characters  were  taken  from  life's 
throng  and  were  firmly  drawn.  Then  the  plot  was 
given  in  detail.  Histrionically,  the  performance,  in 
the  general  aspect,  was  adequate.  Burton  as  usual, 
displayed  his  mastery  of  the  mechanism  of  the  art  of 
acting.  In  Miss  Darnby  there  was  a  rounded  profi- 
ciency surprising  in  one  so  young.  She  possessed  the 
repose  which  imparts  reposefulness  to  auditors.  The 
smooth  elegance  of  the  presentation  was  in  the  high- 
est degree  creditable  to  Mr.  Protony 

The  unreserved  eulogy  made  Protony  indifferent 
to  what  The  Recorder  might  print.  He  turned  the  pages 
of  that  paper  absolutely  without  eagerness.  But  as  he 
read  his  attention  became  fixed,  his  indifference  made 
way  for  pangs  of  uneasiness.  The  mise-en-scene  was 
lauded,  the  aotors  commended.  The  play  per  se  had 
merit  from  a  constructive  standpoint,  but  it  could  have 
no  permanent  value  because  the  fundamental  idea  was 
commercial.  Unfortunately,  too,  the  play  could  arouse 
but  limited  interest,  since  boards  of  trade  were  con- 
fined to  three  or  four  cities  and  even  there  the  comedy 
would  appeal  only  to  people  who  had  a  technical  knowl- 
edge of  such  affairs.  The  bourse  scene  exempted,  there 
was  nothing  in  "The  Millionaire"  that  was  not  conven- 
tional and  mediocre.  The  Daily  Spirit  deemed  it  an 
unsuccessful  fling  at  originality.  The  Recorder's  was 
a  logical  criticism;  the  tone  lucid  and  truthful;  the 
style  clear  and  unembarassed.  Its  direct  diction  de- 
noted the  mind  of  a  young  man.  The  contradictory 
views  of  The  Forum  and  The  Recorder  created  con- 
flicting sensations  in  Protony.  He  again  grew  restive. 
He  must  walk ;  think.  The  telling  stroke  was  that  the 
play  would  prove  incomprehensible  to  the  masses. 
He  had  not  thought  of  that— and  he  was  now  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  the  observation.  The  clou  of  the  play, 
the  scene  on  'change,  which  so  far  had  extorted  unani- 
mous praise,  would  be  unintelligible  noise  on  the  cir- 


58  SUCCESS  OR  FAILURE? 

cuits  which  he  had  schemed  to  tour.  What  next,  then  ? 
What  could  he  do  ?  In  his  wrought-up  state  it  occurred 
to  him  that  the  evening  press—  The  Diary,  The  Mail 
and  The  Bulletin — might  coincide  with  Phelon.  And 
in  the  last  analysis,  the  box  office  might  belie  the  opin- 
ion of  the  more  part  of  the  critiques.  With  big  receipts, 
with  the  house  filled  nightly,  he  could  tell  Burrows  and 
his  crowd,  "go  hang!"  The  hope  solaced  him.  Men- 
tally relieved,  he  now  felt  the  physical  reaction  of  a 
feverish  night.  He  would  go  to  bed  and  sleep  a  couple 
of  hours. 

He  slept  many  hours— until  the  cries  of  the  news- 
boys aroused  him.  He  was  at  the  outer  door  in  a  few 
minutes  putting  a  coin  in  the  marvelously  dirty  hand 
that  issued  from  the  marvelously  tattered  sleeve  of  a 
kneeHhigh  urchin.  The  Bulletin  had  a  full  column  on 
one  of  the  forward  pages.  Many  paragraphs  told  of 
Burton's  professional  experiences,  of  his  personal  at- 
tributes. Lines  and  lines  were  devoted  to  a  description 
of  the  women's  costumes,  but  of  the  play  no  judgment 
was  given.  Perplexed,  exasperated,  Protony  threw 
aside  The  Bulletin  and  took  up  The- Diary,  which  was 
brief  and  emphatic  in  pronouncing  "The  Millionaire" 
a  success.  The  Mail  gave  a  similar  opinion. 

The  latest  readings  buoyed  him.  He  repaired  to 
the  theatre  to  find  that  the  house  had  been  sold  out 
for  the  next  performance.  Members  of  the  Board  of 
Trade  had  engaged  all  of  the  seats  on  the  lower  floor 
and  the  first  gallery  had  been  largely  bespoken  by 
the  brokers'  bookkeepers  and  settling  clerks.  Such 
luck  Protony  decided  should  be  celebrated,  celebrated 
in  company  with  Laura— and  that  was  just  the  sort  of 
an  occasion  to  facilitate  a  complete  reconciliation  with 
her!  The  thought  elated  him  to  the  last  degree.  He 
asked  the  treasurer  to  advance  him  fifty  dollars  and 
then  notified  Laura  by  messenger,  saying  that  Miss 
Fix,  Burton,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Phelon  and  a  few  others 
had  been  invited. 

The  second  night  "The  Millionaire"  was  less  try- 
ing for  the  stage  management,  but  the  audience  was 
more  boisterous.  Cries  peculiar  to  the  Board  of  Trade ; 


SUCCESS  OE  FAILUEEf  59 

shibboleths  and  shreds  of  commercial  parlance  were 
passed  in  the  intermissions  and  during  the  scene  on 
'change  the  action  was  all  but  interrupted  by  trade 
phrases  hurled  from  in  front.  Protony— in  the  wings 
this  time— was  relieved  when  the  final  curtain  fell. 
In  escorting  Laura  from  the  theatre  several  letters 
were  handed  her  by  the  door-keeper  as  they  passed 
out. 

Surprised,  she  turned  to  Protony:  "Why  didn't 
he  give  me  these  when  I  came  in?" 

"Notes,  letters  and,  above  all,  telegrams  are  never 
delivered  to  actors  before  the  performance.  It  is  an 
excellent  rule.  Bad  news  is  a  bad  thing  for  a  player 
to  carry  around  with  him  during  a  performance.  Those 
letters  you  have  there  probably  are  from  admirers. 
You'll  get  them  in  every  town  if  we  go  on  the  road, 
which  I  think  we  '11  arrange  to  do,  seeing  that  the  play 
is  drawing  all  right — provided,  of  course  that  you  and 
Burton  will  go  on  tour. ' ' 

Yes,  she  was  willing.  She  was  now  in  debt  and  so 
must  do  something  to  meet  her  obligations.  On  that 
score  she  need  not  worry,  Protony  intimated.  His 
share  of  the  profits  at  the  theatre— well,  they  would 
talk  it  over  later.  Laura's  touch  on  his  arm  lightened, 
as  if  to  withdraw  her  hand;  he  therefore  broke  mid- 
way in  his  diplomatic  offer  to  assist  her.  But  the  shot 
of  acute  infelicity  was  fugitive.  He  soon  felt  confi- 
dent that  he  would  regain  her  confidence. 

The  only  private  supper  room — spacious,  though 
of  low  ceiling— at  "Tom's  Chop  House"  was  illumin- 
ated to  a  pitch  in  consonance  with  the  garish  brilliancy 
of  the  place  and  also  entirely  in  accord  with  the  mass 
of  recklessly  miscellaneous  prints  (representing,  in 
varying  inaccuracy,  forgers  and  assassins,  pugilists 
and  painters,  politicians  and  statesmen,  authors  and 
actors)  strung  on  the  wall  in  company  with  objects 
d'art,  de  chasse  and  de  course;  but  these  gave  the 
haunt  an  appearance  of  pusillanimous  bohemianism. 
Miss  Fix  and  her  broker  brother,  Jack ;  Phelon  and  his 
buxom,  rakish  wife;  Burton  and  a  society  editor  of 
expansive  dimensions;  and  a  very  tall  man— once 


60  SUCCESS  OE  FAILURE  f 

handsome,  who  might  have  been  taken  for  anybody 
from  a  barber  to  a  Russian  prince— flanked  by  two 
showily  prepossessing  and  conspicuously  gowned 
women,  were  waiting  for  Protony  and  Laura.  The 
society  writer  was  introduced  as  Miss  Primrose;  the 
once  handsome  man  and  his  friends  as  Belmont,  Mrs. 
Harmon  and  Miss  Clairville.  Protony  was  then  sub- 
ject to  the  customary  congratulations,  over  which  Miss 
Fix  presided  with  the  air  of  a  schoolmistress  who  per- 
mits her  scholar  to  be  praised.  Seated,  cocktails  were 
ordered  for  all  save  Miss  Fix,  who  asked  for  ginger 
ale.  While  the  drinks  were  preparing,  Mrs.  Phelon 
explained  that  Teddy  was  not  very  well,  so  she  had 
consented  to  his  taking  a  little  whisky  a  few  minutes 
ago.  Phelon,  with  closed  eyes,  half  smiled:  "And  I 
charged  it  up  to  you,  Prot.,  old  boy,"  he  drawled. 

Protony  answered  effusively  that  he  would  he 
could  always  contribute  to  Mr.  Phelon 's  happiness  and 
contentment— or  some  phrase  equally  stilted  and  arti- 
ficial. 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  awkward  silence. 
Miss  Fix  clearly  was  a  stranger  to  Bohemianism— she 
seemed  ludicrously  out  of  her  element.  Per  contra, 
the  two  garishly  attractive  women  fitted  their  environ- 
ment—they were  boldly  unconventional,  though  plainly 
conscious  of  their  physical  perfections.  Phelon  was 
drowsy ;  but  his  wife,  although  mute,  had  a  round  smile 
for  everybody;  Laura  studied  faces.  Evidently  Jack's 
and  Belmont 's  thoughts  were  far  away.  Protony  was 
trying  to  think  of  something  of  general  interest.  The 
heterogenous  company  became  more  homogeneous  after1 
the  first  cocktail.  Following  the  second  course,  wine 
was  served,  and  the  subtle  flattery  of  the  gentler  drink 
soon  relaxed  all  in  a  unison  of  good  fellowship.  Phe- 
lon awoke  to  the  presence  of  the  gathering;  he  even 
quoted  a  line  on  wine,  from  Keats.  Mrs.  Phelon 
beamed  and  pronounced  the  brand  "good  stuff,  just 
like  my  Teddy's  writings."  All  applauded— and  the 
applause  was  mainly  sincere.  The  exceptions  were  Miss 
Harmon  and  Miss  Clairville,  who  were  from  New  York. 
While  Jack  was  telling  an  Irish  story,  Protony  leaned 


SUCCESS  OR  FAILURE!  61 

toward  Phelon  and  whispered  the  question,  who  was 
Belmont  ?  A  broker  who  had  failed,  and  now  a  solici- 
tor for  Jack's  firm.  His  business  record,  though  bad, 
was  better  than  his  social  standing.  He  always  had 
two  or  three  alluring  women  about  him— women  as 
adventurous  as  they  were  seductive.  Wealthy  men 
used  but  despised  Belmont, 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

A  CELEBEATION. 

The  wine  was  loosening  the  tongues  and  imagina- 
tions of  Belmont's  companions.  Mrs.  Harmon  told  an 
historiette,  barely  safe.  That  ended,  Protony  continued 
quickly  with  a  clean,  humorous  anecdote,  his  purpose 
being  to  divert  the  conversation  to  a  safer  channel— 
he  noticed  a  shade  of  dismay  in  Miss  Fix's  eyes,  al- 
though her  brother  was  amused.  Protony  now  re- 
gretted that  the  steward  had  orders  to  serve  yet  more 
wine— and  of  a  different  brand.  But  the  regret  insensi- 
bly vanished  as  the  intoxicant  was  drunk  glass  upon 
glass.  However,  he  was  aroused  to  some  sense  of  a 
host's  responsibility  by  a  drastic  incident.  Mrs.  Har- 
mon withdrew  from  a  black,  diamond  studded  case 
two  cigarettes,  lit  one  and  threw  the  other  to  Miss  Fix 
with: 

"Have  a  smoke,  Miss  Prude?" 

For  a  minute  the  spinster  alternately  flushed  and 
paled.  She  rose,  remarking,  "Such  breeding  and  such 
familiarity  are  insufferable." 

Phelon  cooly  and  carelessly  retorted  for  the  famil- 
iar woman:  "Why,  how  can  there  be  breeding  with- 
out familiarity?" 

A  chorus  of  laughter  broke  out,  in  which  even 
Laura  joined. 

Miss  Fix  shook.  "Come,  Jack,  this  is  disreputable 
company. ' ' 

She  swept  to  the  door,  her  brother  and  Protony 
following,  the  latter  protesting  against  Mrs.  Harmon's 
conduct. 

Protony  returned  in  a  few  minutes  to  find  his 
guests  unrepentant.  Mrs.  Harmon  had  placed  both 

(62) 


A  CELEBRATION.  63 

feet  on  the  chair  vacated  by  Miss  Fix,  her  gown  drawn 
to  the  knee.  Belmont  had  taken  Jack's  seat  and  was 
throwing  crumbs  of  bread  at  Miss  Clairville.  Laura, 
thrall  to  the  influence  of  the  wine  and  ambient  atmos- 
phere, listened  to  Phelon's  audacious  remarks.  Mrs. 
Phelon  smoked  a  cigarette. 

Protony  was  greeted  with:  "Hello!  Joseph  got 
out  of  and  away  from  a  fix. ' '  Clairville  said  it. 

Mrs.  Harmon  took  it  up:  "Did  you  escape  with 
your  virtue  intact,  Joseph?" 

' '  Ladies,  ladies !  I  must  insist  that  you  desist.  You 
are  manifesting  a  shocking  irreverance  for  a,  very  es- 
timable lady— and  my  collaborator,"  Protony  deris- 
ively protested. 

Mrs.  Phelon  had  said  nothing  thus  far,  but  as  she 
half  rose  from  the  chair,  her  cheeks  crimson  and  her 
eyes  rakish,  it  was  plain  she  would  be  venturesome. 
"Mr.  Protony,"  she  asked  in  an  innocent  manner, 
deliciously  simulated,  "do  you  think  that  Miss  Fix 
could  collaborate  in  anything  more  vital  than  a  literary 
subject?" 

"By  Jove,  that  was  good!"  exclaimed  her  husband. 
"If  you  were  not  my  wife  I'd  kiss  you.  You  are 
always  doing  or  saying  something  surprisingly  bright." 

"And  you  see,  Eddie,  it  has  been  neither  the  lady 
nor  the  tiger." 

Belmont  demanded  an  explanation.  "Don't  speak 
in  riddles.  Tell  me  what  you  mean." 

Not  heeding  Phelon's  warning  finger  she  explained 
that  he  had  received  a  check  for  a  hundred  dollars 
from  a  weekly  periodical  for  an  essay  on  Stockton's 
story,  "The  Lady  or  The  Tiger."  In  cashing  the 
check  for  him  the  cashier  of  The  Forum  had  jocularly 
asked:  "What  will  you  do  with  so  much  money,  Mr. 
Phelon?"  And  Phelon  had  answered:  "Well,  it  will 
either  be  the  lady  or  the  tiger." 

"I'll  see  to  it  that  it  will  not  be  the  lady  and  I'll 
try  to  keep  the  money  from  the  tiger,"  the  blonde 
added. 

More  applause.  "Admirable!  Admirable!  Splen- 
did !  The  best  thing  I  've  heard  in  many  a  day.  Let 


64  A  CELEBRATION. 

us  drink  to  Mrs.  Phelon."  This  time  all  rose  to  Pro- 
tony  's  response  and  in  the  rising,  Protony,  who  had 
been  comparatively  moderate  in  his  potations,  noticed 
an  impairment  in  Laura's  self-control— her  eyes  were 
mischievous— her  form  oscillated.  The  discovery 
shocked  him,  who  had  paid  no  personal  attention  to 
the  loose  remarks  and  deportment  of  the  other  women. 
But  signs  of  abandonment  in  Laura  were  to  him  as  a 
visitation  of  sudden  pain.  He  must  do  something  to 
stop  the  carousal,  or  at  least  to  divert  its  course.  ' '  Be- 
fore we  sit  down,"  he  suggested,  "let  us  insist  that 
Mr.  Phelon  make  a  philosophical  speech  or  recite  some 
of  his  own  majestic  lines." 

"Good!     Good!    A  speech!    A  poem!" 

"A  philosophical  speech?  No!  No!  I  haven't 
attempted  such  -a  thing  since  my  college  days.  Still 
—yes,  I'll  try  to  say  something— if  what  comes  first 
to  my  head  flies  straight  to  my  tongue." 

"Fellow  mortals,"  he  began  with  an  air  of  mock 
pomposity.  "There  is  an  impenetrable  curtain  at 
either  end  of  life.  The  first  is  the  one  through  which 
we  enter;  its  hues  are  white  and  purple,  symbolical 
of  hope,  of  youth.  The  second— through  which  we 
depart — is  black,  signifying  death.  At  present  we 
find  ourselves  between  these  curtains  of  morning  and 
night.  What  is  back  of  the  shade  and  shroud  we  do 
not  know — perhaps  we  shall  never  know.  Our  lot 
reminds  me  of  a  Scandinavian  legend.  A  band  of  war- 
riors were  seated  about  a  fire  at  night  in  the  hall  of 
an  abandoned  castle.  During  one  of  those  silent,  medi- 
tative moments  when  man,  however  primitive,  feels 
solitude  and  the  sublimity  of  the  Creator,  a  bird  flew 
in,  fluttered  around  the  fire  and  then  disappeared  into 
the  darkness  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  'Life,'  said 
the  chieftain,  'is  as  that  bird;  it  comes  we  know  not 
whence,  enjoys  the  warmth  of  life  for  a  moment,  and 
goes  we  know  not  whither!'  ' 

Laura  interrupted:  "But  the  bird  found  its  nest, 
did  it  not?" 

Protony  was  gratified  to  see  that  the  current  of 


A  CELEBRATION  65 

thought  prompted  by  Phelon's  remarks  had  subdued 
Laura's  artificial  gaiety. 

"That  is  the  answer  one  of  the  warriors  made— and 
remember,  the  hope  of  an  hereafter  was  expressed  by 
a  menial,  not  by  the  chief.  The  master  mind,  your 
skeptic,  is  above  the  common-place  intelligence  which 
bows  down  to  tradition  and  accepts  ideas  second  hand 
—from  the  past.  The  leader  echoes  Socrates:  'All 
we  know  is  that  we  do  not  know.'  We  do  not  know. 
We  cannot  know ;  so,  fellow  mortals,  in  this  mysterious 
game  called  life  I  say  with  Hoyle,  'when  in  doubt,  take 
the  trick.'  Take  the  trick!  We  came  from  darkness 
and  we  return  to  darkness.  Meanwhile  we  are  be- 
tween the  curtains— a  good  enough  place  if  you  know 
how  to  live  in  it— how  to  exercise  and  how  to  apply 
your  volition,  for  everything  after  all  is  volitional. 
Everything  comes  to  him  who  is  determined.  The 
world  belongs  to  the  man  of  will.  He  utilizes  his  pas- 
sions and  instincts,  he  does  not  allow  them  to  dominate 
him.  He  commands  his  forces  as  he  would  a  charger. 
Keep  active  the  fires  within  you  but  do  not  let  them 
consume  you.  Control  them.  Control  your  mind, 
your  body.  Control  your  sentiment  as  you  do  your 
reason.  Make  yourself  lovable  to  women  and  formid- 
able to  men.  Gain  power  by  every  strong  means,  but, 
upon  your  life,  do  nothing  mean  or  cheap.  Do  not 
lose  yourself  in  anger ;  laugh  but  little,  regret  nothing. 
Forget  the  past;  live  in  the  present;  fear  not  the 
future.  When  women  weep  and  men  bleed,  be  im- 
passive as  a  pagan.  But  remember,  above  all,  the 
most  precious  thing  in  life  to  a  man  not  already  forty 
who  has  himself  well  in  hand  is  an  amiable  woman." 

He  stopped,  raised  his  glass,  depleted  it  slowly.  He 
meditated  momentarily,  as  one  who  is  trying  to  recall 
something;  then  recited: 


"Entends-tu  Soupirer  ces  enfanta  qui    s'embrassent? 
On  dirait,  dans  1'etreinte  ou  leurs  bras  nus  s'enlancent 
Par  une  double  vie  un  seul  corps  anim6, 
Des  sanglots  inouie,  des  plaintes  oppressees, 
Ouvrent  en  frissonnant  leurs  levres  iiisenses, 


66  A  CELEBRATION. 

En  les  baisant  au  front  le  plaisir  s'est  pame' 
Us  sont  jeiines  et  beaux,  et,  rien  qu'a  les  entendre, 
Comme  un  pavilion  d'or  le  ciel  devrait  descendre. 
Eegare!     Comme  ils  s'aime." 

"I  say,  Phelon,  will  you  kindly  translate  all  that 
for  us?  I  suppose  it's  good,  but  we  would  like  to 
know."  It  was  Belmont  who  wanted  to  know. 

"I  can  tell  you  in  a  word  what  the  lines  mean. 
Youth— with  a  big  Y.  They  are  symbolic  of  youth; 
they  are  the  apotheosis  of  youth." 

"I'm  done,"  he  added.  Protony,  you  are  master 
of  ceremony  here.  Call  upon  some  one  else  to  con- 
tribute to  the  entertainment." 

Protony  turned  to  Laura.  "Miss  Darnby,  a  reci- 
tation or  a  song,  s'il  vous  plait." 

The  French  phrase  harked  Laura  back  to  the  weeks 
of  idleness  when  she  had  memorized,  among  other 
things,  a  number  of  French  and  German  songs..  "Je 
suis  grise,  toute  grise,"  from  "La  Perichole"  occurred 
to  her.  With  an  audacity  incited  by  the  festive  cir- 
cumstances she  sang— wine  glass  in  hand — "I'm  tipsy, 
oh,  so  tipsy"  more  or  less  correctly.  There  was  a  loud 
clapping  of  hands  at  the  end,  in  which  all  but  Phelon 
joined — Phelon  had  fallen  into  "an  alcoholic  trance" 
according  to  Belmont.  Protony  followed  with  a  humor- 
ous speech  in  Irish  accent.  Then  Belmont  told  anec- 
dotes perilously  libidinous.  Mrs.  Phelon,  who,  up  to 
now  had  been  drinking  and  laughing  immoderately, 
rose.  She  put  one  hand  on  the  table  to  steady  herself : 
"I  wa— wa— na— I  wa — nt  to  shay  tha  Ted-dy  an 
I've  been  marr — ried  two  yearsh  an'  I  love  him— im— 
more  'n  ev — ev— er.  An'  I  wan— wansht  't  shay- 
She  stopped  unable  to  fix  another  word.  Rocking 
back  and  forth  for  a  few  moments  where  she  stood 
she  laughed  incoherently,  turned  to  Phelon — who  was 
dozing— and  fell  upon  his  neck  with  an  hysterical  sob. 
Phelon  awoke.  "What  is,  dear  boy?  What  can  I  do 
for  you." 

Protony  suggested  in  a  mushy  voice:  "Let's  toast 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Phelon." 

Belmont  took  it  up:    "To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Teddy!" 


A  CELEBRATION.  67 

Phelon  was  aroused.  "To  Gladys  and  to  me?  You 
are  very  good,  dear  boy.  Gladys,  they  drink  to  you 
and  to  me." 

They  all  emptied  their  glasses  unsteadily.  Mrs. 
Phelon  drank  tears  which  had  fallen  into  her  wine. 
She  drank  another  potation  and  then  another.  Bel- 
mont  started  to  tell  a  story  several  times,  but  lost 
himself  in  the  first  sentence.  Mrs.  Phelon,  Mrs.  Har- 
mon and  Miss  Clairville  talked  simultaneously  and 
incoherently.  Laura  laughed  without  knowing  why. 
She  presently  found  herself  embraced  by  Phelon.  Bel- 
mont  kissed  Mrs.  Phelon.  Mrs.  Harmon  took  one  of 
Protony's  hands,  Miss  Clairville  the  other.  There  was 
a  noisy  confusion  when  somebody  overturned  the  table 
with  a  terrific  crash.  A  red  round  face  appeared  in 
the  doorway  and  saw  -a  mass  of  broken  crockery,  spilled 
wine  and  water  and  dilapidated  victuals.  "What's 
the  matter?"  the  red,  round  face  demanded,  growing 
redder  as  it  viewed  the  wreck. 

" That 'shal— all  ri— right,  Tom,  de— dear  boy; 
al — al— all  right,"  mumbled  Phelon,  while  the  rest, 
momentarily  stopped  in  their  physical  activity  by  the 
angry  intrusion  of  the  proprietor,  echoed  tipsily,  "All 
—all  ri— right,  Tom;  it'sh  al— all  right." 

"The  next  thing  will  be  a  raid  by  the  police.  You'd 
better  go  home  before  I'm  pulled.  There  are  cabs  at 
the  door.  Get  in  'em  an'  get  out  'o  here." 

The  menace  of  a  ride  in  a  patrol  wagon  terrorized 
Protony,  who,  though  in  a  sliding  mood,  had  not  wholly 
lost  himself.  "Tom's  right,"  he  seconded;  "let's  go." 

After  much  swaying,  stumbling,  shuffling,  Belmont, 
Mrs.  Harmon  and  Miss  Clairville  were  got  into  one  car- 
riage, the  Phelons  in  a  second,  and  Protony  and  Laura 
in  a  third. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

EN  BOUTE. 

The  next  day  Laura  was  attentive  to  Protony's 
plan  of  going  on  tour.  He  was  uncertain  about  "The 
Millionaire/'  so  he  thought  of  adding  "Charity 
Ball/'  "Men  and  Women"  and  a  German  play  adapted 
by  Ringold.  "The  Millionaire"  could  be  played  in 
cities,  the  other  pieces  in  towns.  Laura,  approving, 
asked  about  the  changes  in  the  company,  the  name  and 
character  of  the  Ringold  adaptation.  Protony  was  not 
decided  about  the  personnel  of  the  company— that 
would  depend  upon  the  amount  of  backing.  The  Ger- 
man drama  was  well  written,  unconventional  in  theme, 
with  a  striking  denouement.  The  title  "Modern 
Love,"  Laura  thought  would  prove  attractive.  In  the 
original,  Protony  explained,  a  man  of  thirty,  holding 
a  high  position  in  the  diplomatic  corps,  seduces  the 
daughter  of  a  labor  agitator— a  girl  of  pride  and  fine 
sensibilities,  who  had  yielded  in  extraordinary  per- 
suasive circumstances,  fortified  by  deep  affection  on 
her  part  and  a  promise  of  an  early  marriage  given  in 
all  sincerity.  The  diplomatist  becomes  involved  in 
financial  difficulties.  His  debts  are  paid  by  a  par- 
venu's vulgar  widow  who  has  a  marriageable  daugh- 
ter, unattractive  and  ambitious.  In  the  last  act— fol- 
lowing the  engagement  of  the  diplomatist  and  the 
parvenu— the  agitator  finds  his  daughter  in  the  house 
of  her  rival,  pistol  in  pocket.  The  father  reasons  with 
her— which  is  the  greater  sin,  that  which  she  has  al- 
ready committed  or  is  about  to  commit?  The  seducer 
enters,  and  face  to  face  with  him,  the  father  in  turn 
forgets  himself  and  grasps  for  the  weapon.  His  daugh- 
ter now  stays  his  hand,  observing  as  she  looks  at  the 


EN  ROUTE.  69 

ignoble  features  of  her  rival:  "He  is  not  worth  the 
powder  in  this  pistol.  I  gave  myself,  but  he  has  sold 
himself.  Look  at  them,  father.  A  mean  and  common 
pair.  They  are  well  mated." 

Ringold  had  transferred  the  place  of  action  from 
Berlin  to  Washington,  and  Protony  feared  that  in  the 
adaptation  the  logic  of  the  original  had  been  weakened ; 
but  he  hoped  the  play  would  be  a  go  in  the  provincial 
theatres.  Laura  did  not  share  this  hope.  In  her  view 
it  was  only  in  large  cities  where  literary  innovation 
had  a  chance  of  acceptance.  In  ethics  the  masses  are 
like  women;  and  woman,  being  intrinsically  an  aristo- 
crat, is  conservative,  clings  to  the  conventionalities. 
And  the  further  she  is  removed  from  the  urban  man- 
ner and  thought  the  more  absolute  is  her  rule  in  mat- 
ters of  morality.  Laura,  born  in  a  country  town,  ex- 
plained the  situation  to  Protony;  told  him  that  peo- 
ple in  the  interior  were  ultra-conservative;  that  they 
insisted  sin  and  evil— in  stories— in  plays— be  severely 
punished ;  that  seduction  was  a  crime  heinous  as  mur- 
der ;  that  a  girl  seduced  was  an  outcast.  She  held  that 
"Modern  Love"  would  stand  a  better  trial  in  the 
cities. 

Then  they  discussed  Burton.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  his  artistic  talent  and  name  had  a  commercial 
value  where  he  was  known  and  where  good  work  was 
appreciated ;  but  it  was  not  certain  that  he  would  find 
due  recognition  in  one-night  stands.  Laura  was  no 
judge  of  that,  but  she  ventured  a  hint:  she  believed 
the  Jewess,  Miss  Rosenau,  would  prove  a  useful  acqui- 
sition. The  woman  was  full  of  talent,  had  an  intense 
temperament  and  boundless  ambition,  and  would 
offer  her  services  for  a  moderate  salary  just  to  get  an 
opportunity.  Protony  acted  upon  the  suggestion 
immediately  by  writing  a  note  asking  her  to  call  at 
the  theatre  within  the  week,  between  seven  and  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  She  was  there  next  day  at 
seven,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  Protony  had  come 
to  the  box  office  to  look  over  the  bookings.  Yes,  she 
would  do  anything  to  be  rid  of  teaching— the  odious 
drudgery,  how  she  detested  it!  The  terms?  Mr.  Pro- 


70  EN  EOUTE. 

tony  could  fix  the  salary  as  he  pleased.  Only  let  her 
get  away  from  that  hateful,  that  enervating  school 
house.  Very  good ;  she  could  consider  herself  engaged. 
He  introduced  her  to  the  treasurer:  "Miss  Rosenau, 
who  will  join  our  company  at  the  end  of  this  engage- 
ment. Kindly  extend  to  Miss  Rosenau  the  courtesy 
of  the  profession.  I  should  like  Miss  Rosenau  to  see 
the  play  frequently,  that  she  may  familiarize  herself 
with  the  characters." 

She  was  consummately  happy  and  her  happiness 
found  visible  expression  in  her  eyes,  which  shone  com- 
plexly: Hope  for  an  interesting  future,  joy  at  being 
delivered  from  an  irksome  profession ;  and  through  all 
a  vindictive  flash— somebody  soon  would  be  the  vic- 
tim of  her  reprisal.  Protony,  too,  was  satisfied;  he 
had  secured  a  member  amenable  to  all  circumstances; 
financial  and  utilitarian.  He  was  also  satisfied  with 
the  box  office  returns  for  that  night.  The  Board  of 
Trade  scene  was  the  talk  of  the  town.  It  had  been 
discussed  into  a  sensation.  He  was  now  sure  of  suc- 
cess, and  preparations  for  the  tour— a  scheme  which 
until  that  morning  had  been  a  matter  of  secret  reserva- 
tion with  him — proceeded  with  confidence.  One  of  the 
initial  steps  was  the  engagement  of  an  advance  agent, 
a  Fred  Freeman,  alert,  astute  and  hardly  literate, 
a  product  of  South  Clark  street,  whose  memory  did 
not  include  recollections  of  progenitors,  but  readily 
reverted  to  the  time  when  he  polished  boots  on  week 
days  and  sold  newspapers  on  Sundays,  a  small,  slen- 
der, gritty  fellow,  who  knew  the  ropes  of  the  cities 
and  the  routes  in  the  provinces.  The  contract  signed, 
he  urged  that  Protony  purchase  about  two  hundred 
dollars'  worth  of  diamonds  at  once.  He  insisted  that 
it  was  an  investment  absolutely  essential  to  favorable 
bookings  on  the  road ;  explaining  that  an  advance  man 
well  groomed,  well  dressed  and  with  an  abundance 
of  jewelry  always  commanded  a  better  percentage  than 
the  fellow  with  unadorned  hands  and  shirt  front.  To 
the  provincial  manager,  gems  were  the  signs  of  pros- 
perity— one  must  present  a  shining  front  in  the 
country.  Protony  was  persuaded.  He  drew  the 


EN  ROUTE.  71 

amount  from  the  box  office  and  handed  the  money  to 
Freeman,  who  appeared  the  following  day  resplend- 
ent in  a  silk  tile,  a  flaming  cravat  and  blinding  rings 
and  shirt  studs.  And  he  was  fully  primed  for  his  mission. 
He  got  together  scores  of  copies  of  The  Forum  con- 
taining Phelon's  critique  of  "The  Millionaire"  and 
had  prepared  a  minutely  arranged  itinerary,  com- 
mencing at  Baraboo,  Wisconsin,  and  terminating  in  the 
far  northwest. 

All  but  three  members  of  the  company  were  en- 
listed to  play  the  circuit.  One  was  voluntarily  omitted ; 
two  would  not  or  could  not  go  on  the  road.  Hear- 
ing of  the  defections,  Miss  Rosenau  proposed  Miss 
Carr,  who,  since  her  companion's  engagement,  had 
suddenly  developed  a  propensity  for  the  stage.  Laura 
approving,  the  schoolmistress  was  taken  on  provision- 
ally. Of  the  remaining  vacancies  in  the  roles  of  "The 
Millionaire,"  one  was  a  minor  male  part  which  Pro- 
tony  himself  could  play  under  an  assumed  name;  the 
other,  the  character  of  a  dashing  speculator,  was 
assigned  to  a  young  man  introduced  by  a  dramatic 
agency,  Raymond  Belleville,  whose  presence  was  as 
euphonious  as  his  name. 

Laura  was  impressed  by  the  contrast  between  the 
departure  at  Chicago  and  the  arrival  at  the  diminu- 
tive station  in  the  north.  In  leaving,  the  strollers 
were  lost  amongst  the  swarming  and  impatient  crowds 
which  pressed  against  the  high  iron  gates,  eager  to 
get  into  the  trains  that  would  deliver  them  from  the 
crushing  conditions  of  a  crude,  monstrous  city  to  the 
towns,  villages  and  country  seats  on  the  lake's  shore 
and  amid  the  hills  and  forests  of  Northern  Illinois  and 
Southern  Wisconsin. 

At  Madison  there  occurred  a  startling  episode. 
Two  men  of  athletic  stature  and  searching  eyes  entered 
the  coach  occupied  by  the  Protony  Dramatic  Company. 
They  were  accompanied  by  the  conductor.  A  man — 
hitherto  silent,  unobtrusive— who  occupied  a  seat  at 
the  other  end  of  the  car  leaped  for  the  door.  But  a 
porter  was  on  the  platform  holding  the  knob.  The 
men  with  the  searching  eyes  were  beside  the  hitherto 


72  EN  ROUTE. 

silent,  unobtrusive  man  in  an  instant.  There  was  a 
momentary  struggle.  When  the  quiet  fellow  turned, 
his  hands  were  captive  in  broad,  thick,  shining  mana- 
cles, connected  by  a  slender  steel  chain.  The  negro 
trainman  opened  the  door;  the  detectives  and  their 
prisoner  disappeared.  Not  a  word  had  been  spoken. 
The  conductor  explained:  "A  criminal,  one  of  the 
most  dangerous  in  the  country."  He  had  eluded  the 
officers  at  the  Chicago  depot,  but  had  been  recognized 
by  him  (the  conductor),  who  had  wired  the  Madison 
police. 

But  nature's  panorama  elicited  far  different  emo- 
tions in  Laura.  As  soon  as  the  train  shot  out  of  Wis- 
consin's capital,  there  was  a  sweeping  change  in 
topography.  Small  lakes  abounded.  Hills,  bluffs, 
then  mountains  appeared  in  picturesque  concatena- 
tion. The  ever-varying  picture  culminated  impress- 
ively. A  circle  of  mountains,  vine,  pine  and  rock  clad. 
Within  the  circle  an  immense  mirror  of  water,  cold 
and  brilliant  under  the  sun  that  fairly  capped  the 
western  mountains.  Sand,  white,  firm  and  smooth, 
margined  the  lake  and  upon  the  margin  an  hotel,  a 
few  villas  and  a  wine  hut  of  pine  logs.  Not  a  sound 
but  the  breathing  of  the  engine,  and  when  that  had 
ceased  taking  breath  the  silence  was  absolute.  The 
mountains  barred  the  world  and  admitted  the  heavens. 
They  were  walls  of  grandeur;  walls  covered  with  stat- 
uesque trees  through  whose  broad  branches,  at  inter- 
vals, the  winds  murmured  melancholily ;  walls  of  gray 
rocks  strangely  formed,  amid  which  crept  wild  ani- 
mals and  unpoisonous  reptiles,  and  winding  vines, 
bearing  potential  joy  and  laughter. 

The  cry  "Baraboo"  shocked  them  to  a  realization 
of  the  cares  of  civilization.  From  the  low  and  leprous 
looking  station  the  'bus  went  down  a  precipitous  hill ; 
across  the  bridge,  which  resounded  the  wheels  and 
horses'  hoofs  like  the  remote  thunder  that  precedes 
a  summer's  rain  storm;  then  up  a  sheer  acclivity.  At 
the  top,  the  business  quarter,  and  in  the  center  of  this 
a  square  box-like  hotel  of  rough  stone. 

The  fat,  flabby,  clean  shaven  landlord,  who  looked 


EN  ROUTE.  73 

as  if  he  would  say  and  later  did  say  "Yea"  for 
"Yes,"  scrutinized  the  company  with  a  wrinkled  brow 
for  a  moment ;  but  the  creases  disappeared  directly  he 
took  stock  of  his  visitors'  clothes.  The  women  were 
told  off  in  pairs.  The  men  with  the  exception  of  Pro- 
tony,  shared  rooms  in  twos,  rooms  that  were  all  alike ; 
the  floors  of  unglossed  wood ;  walls  disfigured  by  chro- 
mos  of  screeching  badness;  mohair  sofas,  fashionable 
in  the  early  '60 's;  upholstered  chairs;  a  clothes  closet 
resembling  an  upright  coffin,  banged  against  the  wall. 
Beside  a  low,  white  bed,  a  strip  of  hand-woven  carpet. 
But  the  rooms  were  light,  airy,  wholesome,  and  the 
genuine  quietude,  contrastingly  reposeful  to  the  attri- 
tive  din  of  Chicago,  induced  studious  thoughts. 

When  Rosenau  took  "Une  Vie"  from  her  satchel, 
Laura,  in  delighted  surprise,  asked  if  her  room  mate 
understood  French.  Yes,  almost  as  well  as  German, 
which  she  commanded  as  readily  as  English.  Negoti- 
ating with  the  quickness  and  facility  of  young  women 
thrown  in  sudden  intimacy,  it  was  agreed  that  the  ex- 
teacher  should  attune  Laura's  ear  to  the  language 
which  the  latter  now  had  by  sight  only. 

"We've  always  called  you  Rosey — you've  never 
told  me  your  Christian  name,"  said  Laura,  in  banter- 
ing reproach  as  she  kissed  in  gratitude  the  full,  red, 
Semitic  lips  of  her  companion. 

"You  mean  my  Jewish  name— Rebecca,  of  course. 
Can  you  conceive  of  a  Jewess  with  a  face  like  mine  with 
any  other  label?  Look  at  this  nose,  these  lips,  these 
eyes.  Ah!" — she  made  a  gesture  of  angry  despair — 
"they  will  always  tell  against  me  on  the  stage." 

Laura  protested.  She  recalled  the  many  Jewesses,  of 
pronouncedly  Oriental  features,  famous  in  dramatic  art, 
"You,  Becky— I'll  abridge  the  name— have  a  very 
strong  face.  At  present  you  are  a  bag  of  bones  and 
a  bunch  of  nerves.  You  need  more  flesh,  a  more  agree- 
able expression.  Your  look  is  too  sombre,  too  harsh, 
too  bitter,  or  too  embittered,  rather.  But  now  that 
you  are  in  a  calling  for  which  you  feel  that  you  are 
fit— toward  which  you  have  striyen— you  will  be  hap- 
pier and  your  contentment  will  reflect  itself  physic- 


74  EN  EOUTE. 

ally.  The  main  thing  in  life— some  one  told  me— is  to 
do  something  in  which  you  are  wholly  interested. 
Don't  worry,  you'll  change." 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  take  sometime  before  I'll  be 
presentable.  I  wish  I  now  had  some  of  your  flesh." 
This  was  said  enviously  as  she  looked  at  Laura's  per- 
fect form.  When  they  retired,  Becky's  admiration 
deepened  to  absolute  ecstacy.  Oh,  Laura,  what  a  fig- 
ure! You  are  too  beautiful!  And  then  look  at  me." 

"Why,  Becky,  you  have  a  very  pretty  shape  after 
all.  Your  waist  is  exquisite.  Your  hips  want  more 
breadth  and  your  bosom  is  undeveloped,  but  the  con- 
tours are  there.  You  need  more  weight,  that's  all. 
Say,  do  you  pray?  I  don't— I  haven't  since  I  left 
home." 

"Pray?  No.  I  know  the  Lord 's  prayer  in  Hebrew, 
but  I  haven't  recited  it  since  my  engagement  .was 
broken  off.  I  observe  none  of  the  Jewish  holidays— not 
even  the  Day  of  Atonement.  I'm  Jewish  in  nothing 
but  name— and  face.  Oh,  this  nose,  this  nose."  She 
struck  the  feature  desperately  as  if  she  would  reduce 
or  flatten  it. 

"But,  Becky,  Becky!  Your  Jewish  blood  is  a  valu- 
able asset.  It  is  distinctive ;  is  something  to  be  proud  of. 
I  recently  read  somewhere  that  a  Jew,  if  well  directed, 
almost  always  distinguishes  himself.  The  'ages  upon 
ages'  of  persecution  has  purified  and  sensitized  the 
Jew;  has  made  him  keenly  susceptible  to  the  best  in 
civilization.  A  Jew,  the  writer  said,  is  seldom  vicious 
and  never  brutal.  In  the  lower  orders  he  is  at  times 
vindictive;  often  tricky  and  a  cheat;  often  vulgar  and 
insufferably  intrusive;  but  with  education  and,  above 
all,  freedom,  the  vulgarity  and  intrusiveness  and  the 
shocking  defects  due  to  centuries  of  oppression  disap- 
pear. There  is  enough  of  the  Oriental  in  the  Jew  to 
make  him  like  Disraeli;  vain,  and  fond  of  glitter  and 
pomp;  but  the  Orient,  the  author  says,  also  has  given 
the  Jew  warmth  and  a  luxurious  imagination;  and  it 
is  the  Oriental  quality  which  makes  nearly  all  of  them 
who  take  to  the  stage  good  actors." 

A  Semitic  trait  not  touched  upon  by  Laura  subtly 


EN  EOUTE.  75 

showed  itself  next  morning  when  Protony— upon  Free- 
man's suggestion  and  insistance— hinted  to  the  hand- 
some members  of  the  company  that  they  promenade 
about  the  town  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  did  not  give 
a  reason,  but  the  experienced  Burton  whispered  to 
Laura  it  was  to  attract  attention,  create  comment,  ex- 
cite interest,  and  thus,  perhaps,  make  a  big  house. 
When  Miss  Rosenau  heard  of  it,  she  instantly  ampli- 
fied the  hint:  "Why  not  distribute  a  few  dollars 
among  the  women  and  let  them  do  some  shopping? 
This  would  give  the  show  the  good  will  of  the  trades- 
men, would  start  gossip  among  the  women  of  the  town 
and  so  on. ' '  The  look  Freeman  gave  the  Jewess  was  that 
of  a  pupil  toward  a  master  who  had  made  a  marvelous 
discovery.  Everybody  good  naturedly  fell  in  with  the 
piquant  advertising  ruse.  Many  stores  were  leisurely 
visited  and  articles  of  small  price  purchased  here  and 
there.  Men  stared  admiringly.  Women  looked  and 
listened  curiously,  enviously.  The  smartly  conceived 
parade  enhanced  the  attendance  at  the  theatre  in  the 
evening  when  the  exiguous  and  ill  ventilated  audi- 
torium was  well  filled  with  an  audience  fairly  compre- 
hensive of  the  mental  exigencies  of  "The  Charity 
Ball." 

It  was  a  propitious  start  for  everybody,  especially 
for  Laura's  sympathetic  Anna  Cruger  and  Rosenau 's 
hoidenish  Bess  Van  Bur  en;  both  were  promptly  effect- 
ive ;  the  Jewess,  from  her  first  scene  to  the  last,  romped 
through  her  role  with  an  authoritative  abandon  that 
astonished  Burton  and  Protony.  The  latter  saw,  too, 
that  he  had  fallen  on  a  profitable  acquisition  in  Ray- 
mond Belleville.  The  young  man  betrayed  hopeless 
mediocrity,  but  his  handsome  person  at  every  entrance 
was  welcomed  with  a  palpable  flutter.  And  it  was  ac- 
claimed—the applause  was  unmistakably  feminine; 
light  pattering,  fugitive— at  every  exit.  But  Burton's 
vigor  and  vitality,  his  convincing  talent  and  decided 
personality  dominated  the  stage.  In  the  fustian  char- 
acter of  Dick  Van  Buren  he  held  the  house.  Protony 
noted  that  the  tried  professional  who  assumed  Mrs. 
Camilla  de  Peyster  would  never  do.  Though  not  old, 


76  EN  EOUTE. 

she  was  exercised  in  the  bad  old  school  of  acting;  high 
chinned,  high  voiced;  high  colored  in  manner,  method 
and  attire.  Miss  Carr— following  preliminary  nervous- 
ness— did  so  well  in  the  obscure  role  of  Sophie— she 
was  potentially  suggestive— that  he  decided  at  the  last 
curtain  to  exchange  the  parts  between  the  two  women. 
The  Phyllis  Lee  of  Alice  Sutherland  also  was  a  phys- 
ical find— a  stunning  blonde  in  the  first  maturity  of 
married  development,  and  recently  separated  from  her 
husband — but  by  consequence  disqualified  for  the 
pseudo-sentimental  and  harrowingly  lachrymose  part. 
The  Alexander  Robinson  was  a  breezy,  fun-loving  youth, 
Felix  Heman,  who  paired  well  with  Rosenau  's  Bess  Van 
Buren. 

The  bounteous  receipts  warmed  Protony  to  gener- 
osity. He  announced  that  he  would  stand  treat  after 
the  performance ;  but  when  about  to  open  his  purse  he 
found  that  he  was  in  a  country  town;  the  saloons  and 
restaurants  closed  at  nine  o'clock;  at  the  hotel  noth- 
ing was  to  be  had  after  that  hour.  So  all  of  the  com- 
pany, save  Laura,  immediately  retired.  Miss  Rosenau 
was  exhausted  to  the  last  nerve  and  fell  asleep  at 
once.  Laura's  nerves  were  excited,  not  worn.  She 
resumed  the  reading  of  one  of  her  companion's  books, 
"Helene,"  by  Ivan  Turgenieff,  in  French.  Her  vocab- 
ulary was  now  grown  considerable;  it  encompassed 
the  living  words  of  the  faithful  translation  of  the 
Russian  author,  whose  commingled  realism  and  ideal- 
ism obtained  their  greatest  triumph  in  this  story,  so 
pervaded  and  colored  by  the  light  of  the  moral  world, 
in  the  center  of  which  is  a  young  girl  of  a  will  so 
calmly  ardent  and  intense  that  she  needs  nothing  but 
opportunity  to  become  one  of  the  figures  about  whom 
admiring  legends  cluster. 

But  Laura  stopped  before  the  dark  termination  of 
the  tale  was  reached.  It  was  past  midnight  when  she 
closed  the  book.  She  extinguished  the  lamp,  drew  the 
covers  carefully  over  Rosenau 's  shoulder  and  opened 
the  window  to  air  the  room.  She  stood  at  the  open- 
ing for  a  moment.  Except  for  one  light  in  the  dis- 
tance the  darkness  was  complete.  In  that  light  was  a 


EN  KOUTE.  77 

youth  seated  at  a  table,  bent  over  a  book.  A  hand  was 
on  the  pages,  another  rested  the  head,  which  was  cov- 
ered with  dark,  thick  hair.  He  was  absorbed  in  the 
volume— a  country  boy,  Laura  thought,  with  a  liter- 
ary passion.  A  dog  barked.  A  fugitive  wind  brought 
sobs  from  a  water  wheel  in  a  pond  hard  by.  Then  an 
absolute  hush.  The  silence  was  of  the  profound,  im- 
pressive kind ;  one  of  those  perfectly  tranquil  moments 
—so  rare  in  tossed  and  jostled  lives— when  the  earth 
disappears,  and  in  which  there  is  revealed  to  the  soul 
something  of  the  Infinite  Unknown;  and  when  one 
feels  most  intimately  that  there  is  somewhere  a  calm, 
spiritual  existence  which  will  permanently  compensate 
for  the  cruel  attritions  and  the  harsh  tempests  of  the 
everyday  world. 

That  moment  in  the  night— when  she  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  sublime— was  secreted  in  Laura's  sub- 
consciousness,  from  whence  it  darted  to  memory  but 
a  few  times  in  her  fated  life — the  last  time  in  the  awe- 
some instance  when  flesh  and -spirit  parted. 


CHAPTER  X. 

LETTERS  AND  OTHEE  IMPORTUNITIES. 

It  was  still  dark  when  there  were  violent  knocks 
at  the  door.  The  noise — repeated  in  diminishing  tones 
down  the  corridor — awoke  Rebecca  with  a  start.  Re- 
membering the  word  which  had  been  passed  at  the 
theatre  that  the  Company  would  take  an  early  train 
for  Madison,  she  aroused  Laura.  The  breakfast— 
scant  and  hurriedly  prepared — was  taken  in  silence 
and  semi-somnolence.  Burton  was  grumpy,  the  others 
drowsy.  The  ride— in  and  on  an  omnibus— in  the 
fresh  air  of  the  dawn  to  the  station  put  the  Company 
in  more  equable  spirits.  They  had  only  a  few  minutes 
to  wait  for  the  train.  A  day  car  was  quickly  linked 
to  the  seven  coaches  brought  down  from  St.  Paul  and 
in  less  than  two  hours  Madison  was  reached.  They 
were  driven  up  an  easy  incline  at  the  top  of  which— 
overlooking  four  toylike  lakes— was  the  capital,  posited 
in  a  green  square.  The  hotel  fronted  this  and  af- 
forded from  the  upper  floor  an  unimpeded  view  of  the 
city,  which  was  not  really  a  city,  and  yet  above  a  town 
in  population  and  architecture. 

The  Company  had  been  booked  for  two  nights. 
"The  Charity  Ball"  had  been  advertised  for  both  per- 
formances. It  had  proved  a  perplexing  date  for  Pro- 
tony.  The  place  had  seemed  to  warrant  something 
stronger  than  "The  Charity  Ball;"  still  he  had  nothing 
more  fit  to  offer.  "The  Millionaire"  was  incompre- 
hensibly commercial;  "Modern  Love"  literary  caviar. 
It  had  then  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to  have  a 
play  for  just  such  a  booking— something  between 
"The  Charity  Ball"  and  "Modern  Love"— and  in  run- 
ning over  the  successes  of  the  decade  "Sweet  Laven- 

(78) 


LETTERS  AND  OTHER  IMPORTUNITIES.  79 

der"  had  come  to  memory.  He  had  written  at  once 
to  New  York  for  the  piece  and  in  his  mail  at  the  hotel 
was  a  package— forwarded  from  Chicago — containing 
a  dozen  copies  of  Pinero's  early  manner  in  dramatic 
composition. 

The  first  performance  at  Madison  was  attended  to 
the  last  seat  in  the  gallery  and  the  many  students 
from  the  University  lent  a  vociferous  air  to  the  audi- 
ence. The  next  morning  Protony  was  at  once  grieved 
and  gratified  in  his  selection  of  "Sweet  Lavender" 
to  read  in  a  curt  review  of  the  production  that  Mad- 
ison was  worthy  of  something  better,  from  a  company 
that  had  finer  to  offer,  than  the  cast-off  and  service- 
worn  delinquencies  of  Daniel  Frohman's  repertory, 
Laura,  on  the  contrary,  was  elated.  Her  woman's 
pride  and  her  sex's  natural  vanity  were  gratified  by 
numerous  letters  expressive  of  admiration  of  her  art 
and  person.  All,  or  nearly  all,  of  the  epistles  were  from 
students.  Some  of  these  youths  solicited  the  privilege 
of  a  personal  acquaintance.  Two  of  them  boldly  pro- 
posed a  rendezvous.  Rebecca,  who  had  not  been  fa- 
vored in  that  way,  told  Laura  that  Miss  Carr  had 
received  three  notes  from  the  University — all  invita- 
tions to  supper  after  the  performance.  Her  comment, 
"I'm  surprised  that  she  should  get  such  notes,  for  she 
never  looked  across  the  footlights  at  anybody,"  was 
intended  as  deprecatory  of  Carr's  physical  charms. 
The  observation  was  not  impartial,  for  the  former 
schoolmistress  made  a  fetching  Mrs.  De  Peyster. 
Blonde,  of  the  golden  persuasion,  rounded  neck,  arms, 
bosom  and  hips,  she  was  of  the  type  that  appealed  to 
the  ordinary  taste  of  the  ordinary  man— and  to  unso- 
phisticated youth— quite  in  contrast  to  the  epicurean 
attractiveness— mental  as  well  as  sensuous— of  Laura, 
who  then  was  made  aware  of  the  extreme  difference 
of  character  and  appearance  between  herself  and  Carr. 
Protony,  too,  perceived  that  Carr  also  would  prove  a 
drawing  card.  At  the  same  time  his  perception — 
made  poignant  by  the  jealousy  which  unrequited  af- 
fection keeps  viable— suggested  that  Carr  might  be  an 
effective  antidote  against  a  growing  plethora  on  the 


80     LETTEES  AND  OTHER  OPPORTUNITIES. 

part  of  Laura,  who,  since  the  last  week  of  "The  Mil- 
lionaire" in  Chicago,  had  displayed  a  mounting  prone- 
ness  to  establish  a  distinction  between  herself  and  some 
of  the  other  members  of  the  Company.  Lastly,  Rebecca 
was  not  unenvious  of  her  formerly  intimate  friend. 
Her  embodiment  of  Bess  Van  Buren  was  so  natural,  so 
spontaneous,  so  within  the  confines  of  nature,  that  the 
audience  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  and  omitted  to 
manifest  its  appreciation  of  her  ease  and  harmony  in 
stage  pictures.  Unprepossessive,  in  a  strictly  physical 
sense,  there  was  no  mail  for  her,  a  destitution  that 
wormed  the  more  in  the  circumstance  of  Carr's  indis- 
creet vanity  in  volunteering  to  read  the  letters  she 
received. 

' '  Oh,  you  are  too  kind, ' '  the  Jewess  answered,  ' '  but 
I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  hear  them.  I  wouldn't 
handle  the  precious  things  too  much  were  I  you.  I'd 
carefully  preserve  them.  You  may  not  get  any  more 
when  we  reach  the  big  cities,  where  they  care  more  for 
mind  than  for  matter." 

The  derision  inflamed  Carr.  "It's  a  pity  you  can't 
borrow  Laura  Darnby's  shape  as  well  as  her  ideas. ° 

The  tart  repartee  took  place  on  the  stage  within 
the  hearing  of  Protony. 

"Ladies,  another  word  of  this  and  I  shall  fine  you. 
There  must  be  no  contentions  in  the  theatre." 

He  was  in  ill  humor  himself.  The  sales  at  the  box 
office  were  light  for  the  second  night.  The  town  threat- 
ened to  resent  a  repetition  of  "The  Charity  Ball." 

The  threat  was  fulfilled.  Although  the  gallery  was 
well  filled,  the  balcony  was  almost  deserted  and  about 
the  only  occupants  of  the  parquet  and  orchestra  cir- 
cle were  students  who  quite  succeeded  in  the  purpose 
of  compensating  for  lack  of  numbers  by  solid,  roundly 
aggressive,  satisfactory  and  heaven-defying  demonstra- 
tiveness,  emphatically  so  between  the  acts,  when  no 
peace  was  possible  until  Laura  and  Carr  had  appeared 
half  a  dozen  times  before  the  curtain. 

In  Milwaukee  the  Company's  reception  was  con- 
trastingly undemonstrative.  The  audience  consisted 
mostly  of  Germans,  who,  knowing  Burton  only,  ap- 


LETTERS  AND  OTHER  IMPORTUNITIES.  81 

plauded  him,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of  recognition  or 
appreciation  until  the  curtain  was  lifted  on  the  Board 
of  Trade  scene— the  play  was  "The  'Millionaire." 
This  was  put  on  two  nights.  "The  Charity  Ball"  was 
given  twice,  at  a  matinee  and  a  third  evening  perform- 
ance. Meanwhile  rehearsals  had  been  called  every 
morning  for  "Sweet  Lavender."  Laura  was  cast  for 
Lavender,  Carr  for  Minnie  Gilnllan  and  Rosnau  for  the 
oldish  Ruth  Rolf;  Burton  took  Dick  Phenyl,  Belleville 
Clement  Hale  and  Protony  Geoffrey  Wedderburn.  At 
the  third  rehearsal  the  owner  of  the  theatre— a  brewer, 
enormously  rich — became  importunate  in  his  attentions 
to  Laura. 

From  the  moment  of  arrival  when  he  had  seen  her 
pass  the  box  office  his  annoying  manifestations  of  ad- 
miration had  risen  until  they  had  become  grossly  dis- 
played importunities.  Several  supper  invitations  had 
been  sent  to  the  hotel.  The  first  was  courteously  de- 
clined, the  others  unanswered.  The  night  before,  after 
the  performance,  there  had  been  a  carriage  at  the  stage 
door  with  the  brewer  beside  it  in  an  attitude  of  en- 
treaty. Laura  had  refused,  and  turning  to  Belleville, 
who  was  at  the  entrance,  had  asked  him  to  escort  her, 
instead  of  waiting  for  Protony  or  Rosenau;  and  Pro- 
tony  had  breathed  a  whiff  of  jealousy  when  a  few  min- 
utes later  he  had  been  told  that  Laura  had  gone  with 
the  handsome  actor.  Laura  explained  in  the  morning 
on  the  way  to  rehearsal— and  the  explanation  was  cor- 
roborated by  the  brewer's  presence  in  the  box  directly 
the  rehearsal  had  commenced. 

Protony,  in  a  high  tension,  demanded  that  the  box 
be  vacated.  The  brewer,  in  a  thick,  asthmatic  voice, 
replied:  "This  is  my  theatre.  I  built  it.  I  own  it; 
and  every  engagement  here  stipulates  that  the  lower 
stage  box  is  to  be  at  my  disposal." 

"I  don't  care  whether  or  not  it  is  your  theatre; 
whether  you  built  it  or  whether  you  own  it.  Your  con- 
tract does  not  permit  you  to  be  here  at  rehearsals  and 
make  a  nuisance  of  yourself.  If  you  don't  get  out  of 
here  at  once  there'll  be  no  performance  to-night,  and 
I'll  tell  the  newspapers  why." 


82  LETTERS  AKD  OTHER  IMPORTUNITIES. 

The  threat  proved  effective.  The  ponderous  roue 
shambled  out  of  the  box  sullenly.  But  he  was  there 
at  the  rise  of  the  curtain  in  the  evening,  sodden  with 
drink.  His  presence  disturbed  Laura  acutely  lest  he 
commit  some  tipsy  indiscretion.  He  glared  at  her, 
now  with  a  galliard  air,  again  in  a  ferocious  mood.  He 
applauded  her  indescriminately— at  every  entrance, 
every  exit.  The  audience  caught  the  situation,  which 
deepened  Laura's  embarassment,  a  feeling  that  was 
not  relieved  when  in  the  wings,  for  there  she  encoun- 
tered the  obvious  jealousy  of  Protony,  who  followed 
her  every  look  and  gesture.  Both  were  glad  not  to 
find  a  carriage  at  the  door — perhaps  the  proprietor 
had  become  too  befuddled  to  continue  his  offensive 
address. 

But  both  were  disconcerted  when  they  arrived  in 
Chicago  to  find  Ross  waiting  for  them  at  the  depot 
with  a  splendid  brougham.  He  insisted  that  they  go 
to  his  hotel  for  the  one  night  they  were  to  be  in  Chi- 
cago before  starting  for  Kansas  City.  Protony  would 
not  accept  and  his  refusal  prompted  Laura  to  decline. 
Ross  did  not  completely  succeed  in  repressing  his  an- 
ger; but  he  had  the  tact  to  quickly  invite  Carr  and 
Rosenau.  The  former  accepted,  the  latter  refused — 
the  Jewess'  readily  affectionate  and  gregarious  nature 
had  developed  in  Laura 's  intimacy,  with  whom  she 
was  now  in  full  sympathy. 

The  members  of  the  Company  who  had  relatives  in 
Chicago  went  to  their  homes  for  the  night.  Laura, 
Rebecca,  Protony,  Burton  and  Belleville  took  a  street 
car  on  the  line  passing  the  depot,  crossed  the  river 
and  registered  at  an  hotel  contiguous  to  the  station 
of  the  railway  which  would  take  them  to  Kansas  City. 
Protony  was  morosely  silent  until  they  got  to  the  hotel, 
when  he  turned  to  the  Jewess  with:  "Miss  Rosenau, 
will  you  excuse  us  for  a  few  minutes.  I  wish  to  speak 
with  Miss  Darnby." 

"I  want  to  know,"  he  demanded  when  they  were 
in  one  of  the  small  parlors,  "who  informed  Ross  of  our 
route. ' ' 

His  tone  was  peremptory,  his  manner  affrontive. 


LETTERS  AND  OTHER  IMPORTUNITIES.  83 

He  challenged  resentment.  "Why  don't  you  ask  him? 
Why  ask  me?" 

"Because  I  believe  it  is  you  who  have  kept  him 
posted." 

"Believing  that— being  so  well  informed  yourself 
—why  do  you  ask?" 

Her  spirited  answer  quelled  him.  He  became  so- 
licitous. "Laura,  tell  me,  have  you  corresponded  with 
him?" 

She  reciprocated:   "I  assure  you  that  I  have  not." 

"Who  in  the  world  could  have  told  him?" 

"A  member  of  the  Company,  I  presume;  or  perhaps 
he  saw  our  route  in  a  dramatic  paper." 

She  did  not  say  she  suspected  Carr,  whose  willing- 
ness to  keep  Ross  posted  was  traceable  to  several 
motives,  all  leading  to  the  main  intention  of  doing  Carr 
some  good  and  Laura  a  great  deal  of  harm;  for  exam- 
ple, Protony's  jealousy  might  be  worked  up  to  a  degree 
— and  sustained— where  an  irreparable  breach  between 
him  and  Laura  would  occur;  again,  the  possibility  of 
Laura  leaving  the  company  and  joining  Ross— pursuant 
to  that  gentleman's  promotive  inducements;  or  fail- 
ing that— by  way  of  a  last  chance— she  'herself  might 
find  effective  force  with  him.  And  Carr 's  ready  accept- 
ance of  Ross'  carriage  invitation  confirmed  Laura  in 
the  validity  of  her  intuition,  fortified  by  Carr's  de- 
meanor toward  Ross  the  next  morning,  when  he  es- 
corted her  to  the  depot.  She  thanked  him  profusely, 
ostentatiously,  she  gave  him  her  hand  which  she  for- 
got to  withdraw,  smiling  and  talking,  holding  her  face 
close  to  his  the  while.  He  at  first  was  confused,  then 
irritated.  He  suddenly  turned,  walked  directly  to 
Laura,  who  stood  apart  from  the  group  on  the  plat- 
form bidding  good-by  to  friends,  and  said  in  accents 
of  sincere  apology:  "I  wished  to  come  earlier 
so  that  I  could  have  a  talk  with  you,  but  Miss  Carr 
prolonged  our  start  to  the  last  possible  moment,  al- 
though last  evening  she  seemed  anxious  to  be  here 
early. ' ' 

Laura  answered  lightly;  if  it  was  merely  to  speak 
with  her  it  had  been  useless  to  have  arrived  sooner, 


84  LETTEES  AND  OTHER  IMPORTUNITIES. 

for  she  had  just  come.  This'  slight  perversion  of  fact 
was  actuated  by  an  illogical— and  by  consequence 
feminine— idea  that  it  would  alleviate  her  rankle 
against  Carr,  whose  double  motive  intrigue  was  divined 
rather  than  read.  Boss  wished  to  reiterate  the  assur- 
ance that  he  was  her  friend,  that  she  must  promise 
to  command  him  whenever  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
serve  her.  The  theatrical  career  is  beset  with  difficul- 
ties and  accidents ;  one  can  never  tell  what  will  happen, 
however  properous  a  company  at  the  beginning. 

Laura  had  learned  that  a  woman  with  a  disillusioned 
past  is  grateful  for  a  man's  well-meant  friendship; 
it  is  comforting,  sustaining,  even  in  these  times  of  grow- 
ing independence  for  women.  She  showed  her  gratitude 
frankly,  bidding  him  good-by  with  a  nervously  warm 
hand  shake  and  an  illumined  countenance.  This  pro- 
voked a  malicious  smile  from  Carr  and  prevented  a 
repression  of  Protony's  feelings,  who,  when  the  train 
had  started,  observed:  "I  suppose  you  are  sorry, 
after  all,  that  you  didn't  accept  his  invitation  last  even- 
ing." 

She  studiously  refrained  from  controverting  him, 
calculating  that  silence  would  disturb  him  more  than 
a  tart  retort ;  and  the  next  day  as  they  were  approach- 
ing Kansas  City  he  apologized— they  had  not  ex- 
changed a  sentence  in  the  interval;  he  had  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  the  buffet  car,  she  in  reading. 

"So  you  have  thought  it  over  and  found  that  to 
show  gratitude  is  not  a  horrible  offense?" 

She  soon  forgot  him  in  the  abounding  sense  of  near- 
ing  Missouri— the  state  of  her  nativity.  Her  thoughts 
reverted  to  home,  to  her  father,  her  mother. 

She  would  like  to  embrace  her  mother— to  meet 
those  alert  brown  eyes  whose  flash  had  not  been  dimmed 
by  the  lost  illusions  that  had  depressed  the  counte- 
nance to  wanness  and  waste.  Her  wish  to  see  her  father 
was  alloyed  by  fear  of  him  and  discontent  with  herself 
so  far  as  her  conduct  related  to  having  severed  home 
ties.  She  knew  that  Ruhland  had  sternly  disapproved 
of  her  course  from  the  hour  she  left  home  and  the 
thought  of  meeting  him  was  disquieting.  She  won- 


LETTERS  AND  OTHER  IMPORTUNITIES.  85 

dered  how  he  would  receive  her,  how  she  should  greet 
him,  how— "Kansas  City!" 

The  porter  shouted  the  name.  The  train  stopped 
in  a  confusing  din  of  bells,  belching  smoke,  hissing 
steam  and  multi-voiced  cries  in  a  humid,  palpable  at- 
mosphere charged  with  assailant  odors.  It  all  reminded 
Laura  of  the  first  sensation  imparted  by  Chicago,  yet 
here  the  atmospheric  impurities  were  denser,  deadlier, 
the  noises  harsher,  cruder.  Looking  up  from  the  sta- 
tion at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  Laura  saw  a  repulsively 
scabrous  sight.  The  heights,  sheer  and  jagged,  were 
strewn  with  leprous  habitations ;  black,  rotting  shanties 
that  looked  as  if  they  could  not  resist  the  weakest  wind ; 
hovels  in  the  midst  of  decayed  desolation ;  squalid  huts 
thrown  in  dark,  spawning  squalor ;  low,  broken  rotting 
fences ;  the  lanes  and  streets  a  mass  of  mud  and  debris ; 
the  walks  narrow  strips  of  dilapidated  boards.  Up  this 
acclivity  of  foulness  a  tramway  operated  by  cable. 
From  the  top  Laura  looked  down.  The  spectacle  was 
afflicting  from  above  as  it  was  from  below.  Through 
a  moving  veil  of  cinders  and  smoke  she  saw  pitchy, 
sooty  depots  covered  with  advertisements.  Near  these 
stations  a  heavy  slimy  river;  the  thick  grimy  waters 
crawled  as  a  monstrous  serpent  and  glistened  for  very 
blackness.  It  was  impossible  to  distinguish  the  line 
of  demarcation  between  the  polluted  stream  and  the 
banks ;  the  broad,  filthy  borders  seemed  to  be  the  stag- 
nant part  of  the  river  and  were  heaped  with  the  refuse 
of  the  city— garbage  of  every  kind,  offal  of  every 
stench.  Between  the  muck-midden  and  the  hill  side, 
a  shed  here  and  there  which  harbored  the  impaired 
or  discarded  utilities  of  a  railway;  scattered  among 
the  loosely  built  yellow  pine  hutches  were  broken- 
down  engines  and  ruined  freight  cars.  And  every- 
where dirt  and  debris,  debris  and  dirt.  It  was  the  val- 
ley of  hellish  clangor,  of  filth  and  premature  desolation. 

Laura  turned  from  the  appalling  view  and  found 
a  restorative  scene  in  front  of  her;  a  wide  arboreal 
street  of  home-like  houses,  each  in  the  center  of  kempt, 
spacious  gardens.  A  turn,  and  midway  in  the  square 
the  car  stopped  before  a  large,,  imposing  hotel.  As  she 


86  LETTERS  AND  OTHER  IMPORTUNITIES. 

walked  through  the  corridor  Laura  was  delighted  to 
find  herself  featured  on  the  posters  which  dotted  the 
walls.  Her  name  stood  out  in  huge,  black  letters  and 
beneath  a  parenthetical  line,  in  small  type,  reading, 
"A  Kansas  City  Girl."  Some  one  had  told  Fred  Free- 
man she  was  from  Missouri,  so  acting  upon  the  broad 
license  of  a  theatrical  agent  he  had  conferred  the 
honor  upon  Kansas  City.  Protony  explained  to  her 
that  this  was  a  pressman's  privilege— or  ruse— which 
usually  swelled  the  receipts.  He  added  banteringly, 
"If  we  ever  play  in  St.  Louis  you  will  be  born  there.  It 
is  not  a  new  dodge.  There  are  several  actresses  who 
have  as  many  as  seven— the  Homeric  number— birth- 
places. You'll  have  only  two— a  modest  beginning." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WOBLD. 

Protony  had  decided  to  produce  "Sweet  Lavender'* 
at  Kansas  City.  He  called  the  rehearsal  at  nine  o'clock, 
an  hour  earlier  than  customary.  Laura  had  formed  a 
mentally  seizable  conception  of  Lavender,  but  found  it 
impossible  to  give  it  physical  expression  at  the  repe- 
tition. She  was  inclined  to  blame  the  environments, 
which  impressed  her  as  exceedingly  unpropitious. 
The  theatre,  though  small,  was  not  cozy;  it  had  the 
appearance  of  precipitate  deterioation.  The  auditorium 
looked  infinitely  dreary  with  the  chairs  draped  in 
soiled  Holland  covers;  a  few  straggling  sunbeams  ac- 
centuated the  dismal  darkness.  Then  the  interruptions 
were  frequent.  Burton  disappeared  several  times 
and  had  to  be  sent  for  when  his  cue  was  given.  Once 
in  one  of  Laura's  effective  situations,  Carr  was  not 
present  and  -was  found  below  in  confidential  conversa- 
tion with  Freeman,  who  had  completed  his  bookings 
and  was  traveling  with  the  Company.  The  disturb- 
ances appeared  to  be  endless  and  Laura  was  highly 
susceptible  to  them.  Scene  shifters,  stage  carpenters, 
loud-voiced  directions — all  went  to  her  nerves.  No 
illusion  seemed  possible.  There  were  six  hours  of  this 
the  first  day  and  six  more  the  next,  when  the  play  was 
to  be  produced. 

She  came  to  her  room  in  the  hotel  in  the  afternoon, 
disgusted,  disheartened,  exhausted.  Flitting  through 
the  wearisome  numbness  was  a  recurring  dread  of  fail- 
ure. To  present  a  living— a  flesh  and  blood— Lavender 
seemed  beyond  her  power.  She  saw  the  part  well 
enough  but  could  not  grasp  it ;  could  not  make  it  her 
own.  With  her  head  heavy  with  lines,  with  the  sweet 

(87) 


88  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WCELD. 

London  girl  hovering  over  her,  she  sank  to  the  pillow. 

She  was  gently  awakened  by  Rebecca  at  fifteen 
minutes  before  the  dinner  hour.  She  hastily  dressed, 
the  speeches  and  the  business  of  Pinero's  heroine  be- 
setting her.  At  the  table  Lavender  still  was  persist- 
ently intrusive.  She  was  insensible  to  her  environ- 
ment—heard nothing,  saw  nobody,  ate  without  the 
slightest  appreciation  of  that  function.  Freeman's 
professional  deception  about  Kansas  City  being  her 
birthplace  unconsciously  had  inculcated  her  with  an 
ambition  to  excel  here.  And  she  was  terrified  by  the 
fear  lest  she  have  nothing  to  sustain,  to  fortify  the  am- 
bition. She  knew  the  words,  the  exits,  the  entrances- 
knew  the  mechanism— of  the  role,  but  the  spirit  of  the 
part  eluded  her.  She  had  become  a  mystery  to  herself, 
could  not  comprehend  this  lack  of  confidence,  this  want 
of  understanding.  Was  it  extreme  nervousness?  Had 
she  become  self-conscious,  or  supersensitive  ?  Here- 
tofore, in  Chicago,  her  fear  had  been  wholly  physical 
—ordinary  stage  fright— which  she  had  soon  quelled. 
Now  it  was  a  psychological  obsession  which  would  not 
away. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  remain  in  the  dressing  room, 
where  Rosenau,  with  much  less  experience,  sat  tran- 
quilly going  over  Ruth  Rolt  for  the  last  time.  She 
went  upstairs  and  reached  a  wing  at  a  moment  when 
Burton's  appearance  as  Dick  Phenyl  was  heartily  ac- 
claimed. His  make-up,  Laura  even  in  her  perturbed 
state  noticed,  was  marvelously  vivid  of  the  alcoholic 
barrister,  the  hair  frowsy,  the  eyes  bleared,  the  nose 
coppery;  the  mouth  infirm — a  face  conveying  the  idea 
of  original  strength  of  mind  and  character  ravaged  and 
debased  by  drink.  The  voice — more  than  the  unsteady 
frame  and  uncertain  hands — connoted  ruin;  it  was 
tremulously  raucous— such  degraded  tones  as  are 
heard  in  a  police  court  on  a  Monday  morning  when  the 
charge  is  "Drunk  and  Disorderly." 

"That  is  nature,  that  is  truth,"  Laura  thought.  "Oh, 
shall  I  ever — "  She  heard  her  cue.  In  scene,  self-con- 
sciousness left  her.  She  merely  felt  herself  in  a  high 
light,  perceived  a  black  mass— the  audience— abutting 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WORLD.  89 

the  high  light.  An  intermittent  noise  came  from  that 
high  light.  But  she  did  not  know  for  whom  the  ap- 
plause. 

In  the  first  entr'act,  when  going  to  her  room,  she 
passed  Protony.  His  look  seemed  strange— she  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  Had  she  impaired  the  suc- 
cess of  the  performance  ?  Rosenau  was  not  there.  She 
was  disappointed  in  not  finding  the  Jewess,  who,  she 
knew,  had  watched  her  from  the  wing  and  who 
probably  could  explain  Protony 's  singular  expression. 
Now  she  realized  the  fugitive,  the  impermanent  char- 
acter of  the  actor's  art.  The  musician  may  hear  his 
composition;  the  author  may  read  his  book  or  see  his 
play;  the  painter  may  see  the  effect  of  his  brush;  the 
sculptor's  work  is  revealed  to  him  at  every  stroke  of 
the  chisel;  but  the  actor's  highest  inspirations  are  re- 
corded in  sand,  are  written  in  water.  He  is  left  to 
his  feelings,  his  intuitions,  and  these  are  often  decept- 
ive, illusory. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  act  as  she  was  descending, 
limp  and  fatigued,  to  the  dressing  room,  some  one  whis- 
pered in  her  ear:  "Oh,  you  are  acting  admirably. 
You  and  Burton  are  carrying  the  performance. ' '  It  was 
Rosenau.  Laura  revived  instantly.  The  eulogy  was 
as  an  electric  infusion  of  new  life.  Her  fatigue,  her 
enervation  vanished.  And  she  was  wholly  conscious 
that  this  brief  breath  of  praise  had  transformed  her. 
A  line  from  Carlyle  leaped  to  her  memory :  ' '  Talent  of 
any  sort  is  generally  accompanied  by  a  peculiar  fine- 
ness of  sensibility ;  of  genius  this  is  the  most  essential 
constituent."  She  must  have  some  talent,  after  all,  to 
be  so  quickly  and  thoroughly  affected  by  a  passing 
word. 

She  made  the  last  act,  with  its  conventional  yet 
pleasing  termination,  convincing  to  herself,  and  felt 
the  warmth,  sincerity  and  gratitude  of  approval  that 
came  up  from  the  dark  mass  at  the  final  curtain.  The 
feeling  that  she  had  done  justice  to  herself  and  her 
position  was  verified  by  the  press  notices.  In  The 
Epoch's  crudely  but  earnestly  written  half  column  Bur- 
ton and  Laura  were  the  only  subjects  of  appreciation. 


93  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WORLD. 

The  Planet  believed  Miss  Darnby— "Our  Kansas  City 
girl"— to  be  "one  of  the  best  actresses  in  the  country 
even  if  she  be  less  known  than  several  who  panade  as 
stars."  Two  evening  papers  presented,  in  double  col- 
umn width,  Laura's  picture.  Protony  brought  the  jour- 
nals to  Laura's  room  whilst  Miss  Rosenau  was  absent. 
Her  sensitive  ear  detected  a  note  of  forced  effusion  in 
his  congratulations  and  through  his  manner  there  pene- 
trated a  suggestion  of  a  strange  esuriency.  He  took 
both  her  hands  voluntarily.  He  leaned  toward  her. 
She  drew  back  quickly  to  evade  the  kiss. 

"No;  I'm  not  prepared  for  such  a  reconciliation." 
He  reddened,  then  whitened.    Tortured  pride,  jeal- 
ousy, despair  were  successively  mirrored  upon  his  fea- 
tures. 

His  wish  for  a  re-establishment  of  their  former  re- 
lations had  been  prompted  by  selfishness  as  well  as 
affection.  Her  performance  of  Lavender  told  him — ' 
he  saw  and  felt  it — that  she  was  developing  artistic- 
ally; he  perceived  that  she  was  catching  glimpses  of 
the  psychic  world  seen  by  the  intellectually  elect.  He 
feared  that  she  would  rise  above  him,  would  be  inde- 
pendent of  him. 

"Have  you  become  absolutely  indifferent?" 
"No,  but  I  am  resolved  to  be  true  to  my  better,  my 
higher  nature." 

A  knock  interrupted  the  strange  scene.  Rosenau 
came  in  and  asked  where  the  Company  would  go  after 
the  Kansas  City  engagement.  Protony  replied,  "Oma- 
ha, ' '  and  went  out  without  a  glance  at  Laura,  who  had 
read  his  conflicting  emotions  in  his  face.  At  the  thea- 
tre that  evening  he  passed  her  several  times  without 
evidence  of  recognition.  He  spoke  frequently  with 
Carr,  assuming  an  attitude  of  earnestness  the  while. 
At  first  Laura  was  amused  at  his  boyish  attempt  to 
pique  her;  but  her  nerves  and  experience  were  not 
equal  to  a  persistent  repetition  of  the  intrigue  devised 
by  Protony.  Gradually  and  imperceptibly  her  fine  sus- 
ceptibility became  ruffled  under  the  fleering  glances  of 
Carr.  She  went  to  Protony  and  asked  a  casual  ques- 
tion—as a  means  to  a  tentative  approaehment.  Be- 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WOULD.  91 

lieving  that  his  petty  ruse  was  succeeding  he  an- 
swered with  an  air  of  studious  indifference  which  in- 
clined Laura  toward  further  capitulation.  She  was 
ready  to  offer  'additional  overtures  when  something — 
pride  or  intuition,  she  hardly  knew  what — intervened 
and  rescued  her  from  a  submission  that  had  cheapened 
her— not  to  him  but  to  herself.  She  expressed  her 
thanks  for  his  reply  to  her  empty  question  with  an  as- 
sumption of  indifference  similar  to  his  own  and  paid  no 
more  attention  to  him  that  night. 

She  was  made  aware  of  her  heightening  sensitive- 
ness a  few  days  later  when  she  was  aroused  at  dawn 
to  catch  an  early  train  for  Omaha.  The  strain  of  insuf- 
ficient sleep  harrowed  her.  She  was  chilled  by  the 
ride  to  the  station  in  a  'bus  in  which  the  Company  was 
huddled  as  so  many  head  of  cattle;  was  weak  for  the 
lack  of  breakfast  which  the  cook  declined  to  prepare  at 
an  irregular  thour.  She  felt,  too,  humiliation  in  being 
designated  in  the  train  as  if  she  were  a  number  or  at 
best  an  insignificant  entity,  for  Freeman  accompanied 
the  conductor  through  the  car  and  pointing  to  the  play- 
ers individually— a  collective  fare  had  been  paid — said: 
"There's  one,  there's  one,  and  there's  another, 
there's  another  and  here's  another  and  there, 
there;  yes,  he's  one,  too,  and  so  is  she,  and  she  and 
this  one."  Protony,  hardened  to  this  custom  of  theat- 
rical transportation,  could  not  be  impressed  by  that 
which  went  to  Laura's  fiber.  Rosenau  accepted  it 
good  naturedly,  her  philosophy  being  just  a  bit  less- 
ened by  noticing  Laura's  extreme  annoyance.  The 
others  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  became  im- 
patient, however,  as  the  hours  passed  and  no  meal  was 
served.  Freeman  had  advanced  an  indefinite  hope, 
when  they  were  on  their  way  to  the  depot  in  Kansas 
City,  of  a  breakfast  "soon."  Near  the  noon  hour 
there  was  a  stop  at  something  consisting  of  a  station 
and  a  few  loosely  constructed  houses,  scattered  OH 
either  side  of  the  tracks.  Freeman  announced  that 
there  was  a  "lunch  counter  inside."  Laura's  associ- 
ates precipitated  themselves  upon  sandwiches  of 
stringy  ham  and  dry  cheese,  anaemic  pies,  shrivelled 


92  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WOELD. 

fruit  and  murky  coffee.  The  broad  astonishment  of  the 
passengers  at  the  coarse  Bohemianism  of  her  compan- 
ions did  not  escape  Laura  and  in  that  instant  shame 
was  more  poignant  with  her  than  hunger.  At  the  same 
time  the  momentary  animalism  of  the  hurry  and  scurry 
for  food  revealed,  momentarily,  the  difference  between 
her  kind  and  the  world  at  large.  Her  class,  taken  gen- 
erally, was  not,  after  all,  many  removes  from  the  vaga- 
bondage of  old  when  even  the  most  favored  of  players 
wore  livery;  was  really  bottomed  in  irregularity,  irre- 
sponsibility, superficiality;  was  forgetful  of  the  past, 
flighty  in  the  present  and  apprehensive  of  the  future; 
had  a  small,  distorted  and  unreal  view  of  life.  They 
were  not  children  of  the  world.  They  inhabited  a  nar- 
row and  artificial  circle  outside  of  which  they  assumed 
there  was  nothing  of  significance.  Although  of  a 
higher  type,  Protony  in  the  final  analysis  was  a  stroller ; 
but  whose  finer  imagination  and  sensibilities  caused 
him  to  feel  more  keenly  thwarted  ambition  or  unre- 
quited affection.  It  was  the  stroller  in  him  which 
prevented  his  having  more  than  one  idea  or  desire  at  a 
time,  so  that  to  him  at  present  Laura  represented  the 
all  in  all  of  existence.  He  imagined  her  to  be— perhaps 
she  really  was— his  inspiration.  He  held  her  respon- 
sible for  what  seemed  to  him  unattainable  aspirations. 
He  believed  she  should  be  the  receptacle  of  his  every 
mood,  his  disappointments  and  satisfactions,  his  de- 
jections and  enthusiasms,  his  joys  and  sorrows. 

"Why  so  pensive?" 

It  was  the  Jewess  who  asked  the  question  of  Laura. 

"Because  there  is  nothing  else  to  do,  I  suppose. 
I  cannot  study  on  the  train  to-day;  I  can't  follow  the 
others  in  playing  cards.  I  guess  our  early  call  and  the 
awful  meal  at  that  counter  threw  me  out  of  balance. 
I  haven't  enough  energy  even  to  interest  myself  in 
the  novel  you  recommended." 

There  was  nothing  about  Omaha  to  arouse  her. 
The  air  was  heavy  and  moist.  The  city  seemed  gloomy, 
forbidding.  Unlike  Kansas  City,  which  tried  in  a 
rough,  aggressive  way  to  be  urban,  Omaha  had  not 
wholly  divested  itself  of  some  aspects  of  a  country 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WORLD.  93 

town.  The  wooden  canopy,  which  extended  to  the  end 
of  the  curbstone,  where  it  was  supported  by  two  thin 
posts,  was  one  of  the  several  indicia  of  provincialism. 
Worse :  the  city  showed  symptoms  of  the  most  serious 
affliction  that  can  be  visited  upon  a  western  commu- 
nity, the  disease  of  arrested  development.  Neglect, 
abandonment ,  stultification,  already  had  appeared. 
The  negligence  was  made  personal  to  Laura  at  the 
theatre,  where  the  stage  door  opened  directly  on  a 
wide  thoroughfare  and  permitted  blasts  of  the  chilly 
night  air  to  sweep  through  the  region  behind  the  cur- 
tain. The  dressing  rooms  were  damp  and  had  grimy 
walls  which  had  not  been  whitewashed  in  years.  In 
lieu  of  running  water -were  basins  with  a  lazy  fluid, 
too  vitiated  for  use. 

After  the  performance  of  "The  Charity  Ball"  the 
members  removed  their  make-up  with  vaseline,  the  men 
muttering  maledictions  against  a  management  which 
"hasn't  even  a  janitor's  decency  of  keeping  a  house 
clean. ' '  The  women  were  disgusted ;  with  Laura 's  dis- 
gust there  came  a  haunting  sense  that  her  association 
was  not  conducive  to  the  progress  of  histrionic  talent, 
and  that  she  would  develop  more  readily  in  a  first-class 
company.  The  small  audience,  too  had  a  depressing 
effect  upon  her  work.  In  a  different  sense  it  depressed 
Protony,  who  had  a  mind  to  cancel  the  return  engage- 
ment, three  weeks  hence ;  but  Freeman  prevailed  upon 
him  to  hold  the  date,  when  the  manager  was  sure  they 
would  be  rewarded  by  a  larger  audience. 

For  three  weeks  the  Protony  Dramatic  Company 
played  in  Omaha's  territory.  Every  stop  was  a  one- 
night  stand  where  the  living  was  in  various  grades  of 
discomfort  and  where  the  "theatre"  varied  from  a 
miserable  lodge  hall  to  an  auditorium  of  six  hundred 
seats  and  one  box.  In  one  town  the  Company  were 
compelled  to  perform  ablutions  in  old  lard  cans;  in 
another  the  partitions  between  the  dressing  rooms  con- 
sisted of  shabby  canvas ;  in  still  another  there  was  only 
one  room,  which  was  divided  by  a  thin  curtain;  the 
men  occupied  one  side,  the  women  the  other.  And  in 
all  of  those  towns  the  players  were  stared  at  in  the 


94  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PSYCHIC  WORLD. 

streets  as  if  they  were  strange  apparitions— or  freak 
animals.  The  more  intelligent  people  looked  askance 
at  the  actors,  at  the  actresses  they  leered.  Laura  re- 
ceived coarse,  brutal,  illiterate  letters  designating 
meeting  places  after  the  performance.  She  thought- 
lessly handed  a  particularly  offensive  one  to  Protony, 
who  rent  it  testily:  "Why  bother  me  or  yourself 
with  such  cheap  vulgarities."  Her  reserve  was  not 
now  entirely  responsible  for  his  abrupt  manner  and 
soured  temper;  a  depleting  treasury  also  had  made  a 
black  streak.  The  houses  had  been  light  since  leaving 
Kansas  City.  To  the  abominable  inconvenience  of  the 
single  performance  was  the  serious  matter  of  bad  busi- 
ness. When  he  returned  to  Omaha  Protony 's  reserve 
fund  was  exhausted. 

He  wired  Fix  for  money,  assuring  him  that  the  tour 
in  the  Northwest — in  the  Black  Hills  region— must 
prove  profitable.  A  sum  much  smaller  than  Protony 
had  expected  was  paid  to  him  at  the  telegraph  office 
and  even  this  relief  was  poisoned  by  a  grudging  tele- 
gram: "Have  wired  all  that  I  shall  care  to  advance." 
Protony  hesitated.  The  country  he  was  about  to 
play  was  strange  to  him.  He  had  never  been  there  and 
knew  it  only  from  hearsay.  But  Freeman's  urgency 
decided  Protony— he  would  venture  the  tour. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CRASH! 

Lincoln  and  North  Platte,  the  first  towns  played, 
barely  paid  expenses.  At  Lincoln  a  woman  wrote  the 
review  of  "The  Charity  Ball"  performance  in  the  local 
paper,  a  critique  of  polished  irony,  suavely  denuncia- 
tory, in  which  the  authors  Belasco  and  De  Mille  were 
felinely  ridiculed.  She  praised  Laura's  work  and  Bur- 
ton's but  wondered  why  they  devoted  their  admirable 
power  upon  such  "counterfeit  literature  as  had  been 
put  out  by  the  New  York  firm  of  carpenters  and 
joiners. ' '  Fortunately  for  its  treasury  the  company  was 
booked  for  one  night  only.  A  return  to  Omaha  was 
made  in  time  to  connect  with  the  train  for  the  Black 
Hills  country.  Laura,  not  being  in  a  conversational 
or  studious  mind,  looked  out  of  the  window.  The 
country  though  flat  was  not  uninteresting;  it  was 
arboreal,  with  a  black,  rich  soil.  The  people  appeared 
to  be  industrious  and  provident.  At  the  village  sta- 
tions there  were  no  indolent  farm  hands  lounging  after 
the  manner  of  their  kind  in  the  states  farther  South. 
Briskness  and  business  characterized  even  the  least  im- 
portant of  depots.  And  then  there  was  an  air  of  sat- 
isfaction and  contentment  among  the  field  workers  here 
that  contrasted  with  the  dissatisfaction  and  discontent 
of  the  same  class  in  her  own  state.  Laura  wondered 
if,  after  all,  it  were  not  better  to  live- 
There  was  a  crash,  a  lifting  jolt,  a  tearing  noise 
and  piercing  screams.  Laura  was  thrown  into  the  aisle 
on  to  her  knees,  then,  except  for  the  falling  of  broken 
glass  there  was  silence.  The  train  had  suddenly 
stopped.  Getting  up  she  found  her  companions  in  every 
stage  of  demoralization,  save  Carr,  whose  head 

(96) 


96  CRASH  I 

thrown  back  on  the  arm  of  a  berth  chair;  her  face 
absolutely  bloodless.  A  voice— it  was  the  guard's — 
called  from  the  rear:  "Anybody  hurt  in  there?" 

Burton  answered:  "No;  a  lady  has  fainted,  that's 
all.  What's  the  matter?" 

"Train  wrecked.     Engine  in  pieces." 

Rosenau  came  up  with  a  tumbler  of  water  and 
sprinkled  Carr's  face.  Protony  ran  to  Laura  to  in- 
quire if  she  was  hurt. 

A  hasty  count  found  none  injured.  The  porter 
shouted  they  could  not  step  out— the  door  had  been 
locked  for  a  few  minutes  after  the  grinding  shock. 

Then  some  one  shouted:  "All  right;  get  'em  out." 

Laura  was  the  first  to  touch  ground.  She  ran  to 
the  group  of  people  directly  ahead  and  saw  that  the 
reptile-like  monster  which  had  carried  them  so  swiftly 
from  Omaha  was  decapitated — the  head  a  seething  mass 
of  coal  and  iron.  What  had  been,  a  few  minutes 
before  a  dashing,  crashing,  volcanic,  vitality  rushing 
over  the  plains  was  heaped  on  the  tracks  in  thousands 
of  inanimate  particles.  The  wheels,  the  smoke 
stack  and  part  of  the  boiler  were  discernible  under 
the  tender  and  its  contents,  which,  in  turn,  were 
partly  covered  by  the  first  baggage  car  that  had 
plunged  on  the  fuming  pile.  The  mail  coach  straddled 
the  left  rail;  the  fore  wheels,  after  mangling  a  score 
of  ties,  were  buried  to  the  hub  in  the  moist  sandy  soil. 
The  other  cars  were  intact  and  stood  like  stupid  ani- 
mals, sottishly  indifferent  to  the  carnage  before  them. 

"Anybody  killed?" 

"No  passengers,  no;  but  I  don't  see  the  engineer  or 
fireman."  The  fear  proved  correct.  The  incisive 
hissing  of  the  steam  ceased  and  the  sharp  sibilation 
was  succeeded  by  choking,  raucous  tones  that  articu- 
lated: "Boys,  for  God's  sake— for  God's  sake— get  me 
out  of  here!" 

Many  hands  quickly  delved  into  the  debris  that  once 
bad  been  the  cab  of  the  locomotive,  and  brought  into 
the  open  air  two  beings  enveloped  in  overalls  and 
blouses,  torn  and  black.  The  crowd  drew  nearer,  rever- 
entially—with the  reverence  due  the  dead.  One  of 


CRASH!  97 

the  bodies,  'however,  was  animate.  It  uttered:  "Don't 
touch  my  left  leg,  boys;  the  pain  is  horrible  there."  He 
was  carefully  carried  to  a  hillock  and  as  he  was  lowered 
to  the  blanket,  spread  on  the  grass  by  the  Pullman 
porter,  he  pleaded:  "Send  for  the  doctor  and  pay  no 
more  attention  to  me.  Look  for  Cook.  He  must  be 
buried  in  there." 

The  conductor  was  bending  over  the  other  body. 
"That's  Cook,  the  engineer.  Here  (appealing  to 
Belleville)  take  hold  of  his  legs  and  we'll  put  him 
alongside  the  fireman." 

Belleville  put  his  hands  under  the  limbs  of  the  still 
body.  A  patch  of  sooted  blood  soaked  the  blue  jeans 
and  under  garment  at  the  left  knee;  a  crimsoned, 
sprawling  blotch,  a  few  inches  below  the  hip,  reddened 
the  other  member.  As  Belleville  rose,  a  bleeding,  shat- 
tered leg,  scabby  and  fissured,  dropped  to  the  ground. 
Belleville  whitened  and  his  arms  weakened. 

"This  is  too  much  for  me;  some  one  with  more 
nerve  help,"  he  murmured. 

Except  the  brakeman,  all  had  turned  away,  thor- 
oxighly  horrified.  With  an  expression  of  calloused 
contempt  the  railway  employe  muttered :  "Weak  fools." 
He  dragged  the  mass  of  limp,  contused  flesh  across  the 
crushed  coal  and  twisted  iron,  and  as  he  pulled  the 
inert  body  up  the  acclivity  the  other  limb,  reddened 
from  the  shoe  to  the  trouser  pocket  fell  off  and  rolled 
to  the  ditch. 

' '  Don 't  put  him  next  the  fireman ! ' ' 
"What's  the  difference?     The    fireman's    delirious, 
anyway. ' ' 

"Oh,  Annie,  Annie,  don't  worry,  Annie;  I'm  all 
right,  Annie,"  moaned  the  head  of  the  fireman  pro- 
truding from  the  blanket  as  if  to  affirm  what  had  been 
said  about  his  deranged  mind. 


CHAPTER  XIH. 
POISONED   BABBAJRISM. 

The  nerves  of  the  members  of  the  Protony  Dramatic 
Company  were  too  fine  to  endure  the  sight.  From 
Protony  to  Freeman  they  all  went  back  to  their  car, 
which,  fortunately,  was  the  last  on  the  train.  Freeman 
explained  that  this  was  the  stock  season,  when  freight 
was  very  heavy  and  cattle  and  goods  cars  crowded 
the  road.  There  had  been  running,  about  half  an  hour 
ahead  of  the  passenger,  a  long  train  which  ended 
in  a  flat  car  loaded  with  a  huge  iron  oil  pipe.  This 
had  fallen  from  the  car  across  the  tracks,  unknown  to 
the  freight  crew.  The  engineer  of  the  passenger  train 
could  not  see  the  monstrous  obstacle  until  he  had 
turned  the  curve  and  then  it  was  too  late  even  to 
lessen  the  speed,  for  the  train  was  running  down  grade. 

The  sun  was  low  when  the  wreckage  was  removed 
and  another  engine  attached.  Just  before  starting 
Laura  heard  that  the  fireman  was  dead.  Both  he  and 
his  companion  were  only  recently  married— their 
wives  had  bade  them  good-by  at  the  depot.  The  sleep 
of  the  Protony  Dramatic  Company  was  fitful  and  fev- 
erish that  night.  The  scene  they  had  witnessed— or, 
more  correctly,  in  which  they  took  part — had  shocked 
them  to  the  marrow,  making  peaceful  rest  impossible. 
In  consequence,  they  were  the  less  fit  to  endure  the 
enervating  journey  over  the  vast  waste  to  the  South 
Dakota  line.  The  sun  mercilessly  glowed  from  a  sky 
destitute  of  a  mitigating  cloud  and  stilled  the  air 
absolutely.  The  artificial  wind  created  by  the  train's 
velocity  added  to  the  misery  of  the  travellers;  it 
aroused  on  either  side  x>f  the  track  the  sand,  which 
darted  in  the  windows,  filling  ears,  eyes  and  throats. 

(98) 


POISONED   BARBARISM.  99 

For  hour  upon  hour  there  was  not  a  hill  to  relieve  the 
awful  monotony  of  the  flat  arid  earth;  not  a  tree  to 
rest  the  eye.  At  long  intervals  the  train  momentarily 
halted  at  an  Indian  reservation,  consisting  of  two  rows 
of  loose  hutches,  every  one  a  cut-throat  drinkery.  Half 
the  population  was  in  front  of  or  inside  the  saloon; 
the  other  half  at  the  station ;  a  motley  crowd  of  Indians, 
indolent  cowboys  and  liquor-besotted  soldiers.  Many  of 
the  Indians  and  cowboys  were  on  horseback ;  nearly  all 
young  handsome  fellows,  especially  the  savages,  whose 
large  accipitral  eyes  vivified  their  dusky  countenances. 

These  stops  served  only  to  emphasize  the  bound- 
less wanness  of  the  desert.  The  eternal,  interminable 
desolation  of  sand  drove  the  Company  to  cards,  a  game 
in  which  even  Protony  joined.  Laura  tried  again  and 
again  to  read,  but  concentration  of  thought  or  attention 
was  impossible ;  the  heat,  the  scenic  desolation,  engen- 
dered a  vacuity  of  mind.  She  and  her  associates  wel- 
comed the  night,  which  extinguished  the  scorching 
sun  and  rendered  invisible  the  endless  aridity. 

In  the  morning  they  awoke  in  Paradise— Paradise 
in  comparison  with  what  they  had  seen  in  fhe  last 
twenty-four  hours.  They  were  off  the  main  line  and 
detached  from  the  overland  train.  The  swirling  move- 
ment of  the  one  coach  and  engine  made  an  echo  in  a 
canyon  that  was  flanked  by  craggy  mountains  of  red 
soil,  gray  ginting  rocks  and  picturesque  pine  trees. 
They  were  moving  in  a  light  of  gold— the  morning  sun 
filled  the  deep,  narrow  depth  with  a  shower  of  golden 
sheen.  The  engine's  joyous  whistle  echoed  and  re- 
echoed in  this  valley  of  natural  magnificence.  Every- 
body experienced  a  change  of  feeling. 

"Why  are  these  mountains  called  hills— t/he  Black 
Hills,"  Laura  asked  the  conductor. 

"Because  the  first  settlers  out  here  were  lazy, — too 
lazy  to  invent  a  fit  name— so  they  simply  translated 
the  Indian  equivalent  for  the  place." 

The  canyon  widened  steadily;  soon  it  broadened 
into  a  wide  valley.  In  this  valley  was  a  resort  for 
health  and  pleasure-seekers.  A  city  of  shops  and 
hotels;  a  city  of  shopocracy.  The  buildings  were  new 


100  POISONED   BAKBAKISM. 

and  of  bright  stone.  Many  were  pretentious.  The 
company  entered  the  largest  of  these,  an  elaborate 
hotel;  an  immense  rotunda;  a  huge  dining  hall;  big 
parlors;  wide  corridors;  every  room  had  an  air  of 
immensity.  But  the  hotel  was  of  the  same  crude  new- 
ness that  was  stamped  upon  the  city  and  its  people. 
"Withal  there  was  an  awkward  ostentation,  a  garish  dis- 
play, a  coarse  pride  in  everything;  though  through  all 
a  patent  solicitude  about  the  ultimate  success  of  the 
place,  for  visitors  were  not  numerous ;  a  readily  notice- 
able fact  that  actually  distressed  Protony  and  Free- 
man, who  saw  that  a  light  house  was  inevitable. 

The  audience  that  witnessed  "The  Charity  Ball" 
numbered  less  than  three  hundred,  made  up  mostly  of 
men  and  boys.  Disheartened,  Protony  confided  to 
Freeman  that  he  would  cancel  the  remainder  of  these 
frontier  engagements  and  return  to  Chicago,  where 
he  was  sure  he  could  get  a  theatre  for  a  fortnight ;  in 
the  meanwhile  he  would  arrange  for  an  Eastern  tour. 
His  company  and  his  plays  would  not  do  for  these 
interior  western  towns.  Freeman  urged  that  they 
play  at  least  one  more  town,  Deadwood,  it  was  only 
a  hundred  miles  distant  and  the  prospects  there  were 
good. 

At  noon  the  next  day  the  players  were  rehearsing 
,in  a  barn-like  building,  in  a  blaring,  glaring  uncouth 
thoroughfare,  of  raw  vulgarity,  of  savage  levity. 
Laura  saw  that  here  was  none  of  the  homely,  narrow 
contentedness  of  the  towns  farther  east;  here  was 
barely  repressed  lawlessness  of  manner  and  speech. 
The  most  part  of  the  men  were  of  one  class;  outlaws 
called  pioneers;  Caucasian  savages  not  amendable  to 
civilization;  Eastern  failures— failures  in  trade  and  in 
the  professions,  embittered  by  their  experience  at 
home  and  brutalized  by  their  present  environments. 
Actual  and  potential  criminals ;  fugitives  from  the  laws 
of  both  coasts;  cowboys— a  rowdy  crew  of  untamed  or 
incorrigible  youths  from  the  East  and  of  half-breeds 
from  the  "West,  many  drunk  and  all  armed;  gamblers, 
with  low,  depraved,  hang-dog  faces.  Lastly,  the  final 
dregs  of  humanity,  the  frontier  bum;  utterly  lazy, 


POISONED   BARBARISM.  101 

shiftless;  shifty  and  treacherous;  thievish  in  a  small 
sneaking  way ;  too  cowardly  for  crimes  that  demand  a 
show  of  bravery  or  energy;  a  leech  of  the  lowest,  the 
most  revolting  type;  accessibfe  to  every  depravity  be- 
cause devoid  of  all  morality.  The  women  of  two  kinds ; 
the  rigidly  virtuous  and  the  wholly  immoral.  The 
former  all  married,  the  latter  all  prostitutes.  Both 
unwomanly,  both  uninstructed.  The  public  class  with- 
out a  shade  of  shame;  hopelessly  degraded,  thoroughly 
dissolute ;  lacking  the  veneer  of  decency,  the  gauze  of 
reticence,  the  counterfeit  effort  at  charm  which  is 
characteristic  of  most  of  these  unfortunates  in  Eastern 
cities.  Here  they  were  bold,  bald,  brazen.  Unsexed, 
they  ihad  the  savage  turpitude  of  desperadoes  and  the 
viciousness  of  wild  cats  and  flaunted  their  abandon- 
ment with  the  vindictiveness  of  branded  outcasts. 
Coming  from  rehearsal  Laura  and  Rosenau  passed  open 
windows  where  these  creatures  sat,  smoking  black 
cigars,  with  wthisky  bottles  at  their  side.  Vile  unnama- 
ble  impurities  were  shouted  at  the  actresses.  Along 
this  thoroughfare — the  main  artery  of  the  town — nine 
of  ten  buildings  were  abandoned  either  to  reverberant 
vulgarity  or  >a  shrieking  immorality;  saloons,  gaming 
dens  and  stews,  one  after  another.  Some  dives  har- 
bored the  three ;  drunkards  in  the  first  story,  gamblers 
in  the  second  and  harlots  in  the  third.  Placards  an- 
nounced the  vices  openly.  The  signs  "Faro  Upstairs" 
and  "Poker"  were  repeated  from  door  to  door.  From 
these  drinkeries  there  was  hurled  nameless  music 
pounded  out  by  half-crazed,  half-drunken  bedevilled 
females— loose  in  attire  and  gestures.  Rosenau  was 
shocked,  Laura  sickened.  So  overcome  were  they  by 
the  unavoidable  glimpses  of  these  scenes  that  they  did 
not  at  first  get  the  full  significance  of  the  leers  of 
loafers  who  stood  in  the  doorway  or  sat  on  barrels 
and  benches. 

The  Jewess  remarked:  "This,  I  suppose,  is  Western 
gallantry.  I've  heard  a  great  deal  of  the  bravery  and 
chivalry  of  the  West  and  I  find  that  I  don't  like  it." 

Better,  far  better,  Laura  asserted,  the  repressed 
miseries,  the  veiled  passions,  the  gloved,  insidious  temp- 


102  POISONED   BARBARISM. 

tations  and  silent  subtle  sorrows  of  an  Eastern  city 
than  this  bare  ribaldry,  this  naked  bestiality,  this 
poisoned  barbarism,  this  outright  butchery  of  civiliza- 
tion. From  the  theatre  to  the  hotel  it  was  a  series  of 
insults,  by  look,  gesture  and  word.  Those  immoral 
barbarians  saw  no  difference,  made  no  distinction  be- 
tween women  of  the  stage  and  women  of  the  town. 

Laura  dreaded  the  performance,  for  Protony,  pur- 
suant to  one  of  those  grotesque  ideas  of  the  fitness  of 
things  which  struck  him  occasionally,  had  billed  "Sweet 
Lavender".  The  women  of  the  company  were  secretly 
relieved  as  the  curtain  rose  on  an  audience  of  men 
scattered  sparsely  among  the  staring  chairs  in  the  chill 
and  uncanny  auditorium ;  they  had  feared  a  huge  and 
compact  mob  which  would,  figuratively,  bring  the  thea- 
tre down  upon  the  heads  of  the  players.  The  few 
spectators  were  absolutely  still  until  the  last  act,  when 
some  of  them  threw  gold  coins  at  the  feet  of  Laura  and 
Carr.  Both  were  startled,  but  Burton  whispered  that 
it  was  a  custom  among  frontiersmen  to  express  their 
approval  of  an  actress— who  usually  was  of  the  music 
hall— by  throwing  money  on  the  stage.  "Don't  fail 
to  pick  it  up,"  he  added.  "You  may  need  it  for  rail- 
road fare." 

The  suggestion  was  timely,  for  everybody  in  the 
company  knew  that  the  almost  empty  house  had  again 
minimized  the  treasury.  Between  the  first  and  second 
acts  there  .was  a  hot  discussion  between  Freeman  and 
Protony.  Freeman  wanted  to  fill  the  company's  en- 
gagements; he  was  sure  luck  would  turn  in  a  night 
or  two;  besides  he  was  resourceful,  he  could  manage 
to  move  along  even  if  their  cash  became  exhausted; 
he  knew  all  the  managers  on  the  circuit— what  was  the 
use  of  having  such  acquaintances  if  they  could  not  be 
used?  His  friends  the  managers  would  guarantee 
hotel  bills  and  provide  transportation  until  things 
changed  for  the  better. 

Protony  was  inclined  to  yield.  He  had  decided  to 
wire  Chicago  for  a  date  and  while  there  arrange  for 
openings  in  the  East.  Burton's  and  Belleville's  dis- 
satisfied air— a  whisper  of  defection— hardened  Pro- 


POISONED   BARBARISM.  103 

tony  to  his  original  purpose.  On  the  way  back,  at 
Omaha,  a  telegram  informed  him  that  he  could  have  a 
week  at  the  Prairie  Theatre— a  down  town  house !  The 
chagrin  of  defeat,  the  secret  mortification  of  returning 
because  of  ill-success  were  assuaged  by  the  gratifica- 
tion of  a  week's  engagement  at  a  first-class  theatre 
in  Chicago.  With  somewhat  of  a  flourish  he  announced 
to  the  company :  "Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  we  shall  play 
at  the  Prairie  Theatre  in  Chicago  for  a  week."  He 
smiled  complacently  at  Laura,  who  had  measured  the 
distance  between  them  more  and  more  in  the  last  fort- 
night. The  parts  of  "Modern  Love"  were  then  dis- 
tributed. The  company  would  arrive  next  morning, 
Saturday,  so  that  two  rehearsals  would  be  held  before 
the  performance.  Protony  telegraphed  Robert  Ringold 
that  the  German  play  would  be  put  on  and  asked  him 
to  be  present  at  the  rehearsal. 

"Where  shall  we  stop?"  asked  Protony  of  Laura  as 
they  neared  Chicago. 

"I  shall  go  to  the  Lake  Side,"  she  replied,  with 
emphasis  on  the  7,  and  then  intentionally  looked  out 
of  the  window.  This  was  a  plain  cut  and  his  elation 
over  the  engagement  at  The  Prairie  melted;  it  en- 
tirely vanished  when  Ross  greeted  the  company  at  the 
station  and  invited  Laura,  Rosenau  and  Carr  to  step 
into  a  carriage  which  would  take  them  to  his  hotel. 

"You  seem  to  be  well  posted,"  Protony  .remarked 
in  exasperation.  "You  always  know  when  we  come 
and  go." 

"I  have  very  good  friends  around  the  theatres," 
was  the  cool  reply. 

Protony 's  infelicity  was  deepened  when  he  reached 
the  theatre,  where  he  found  Freeman  in  earnest  argu- 
ment with  De  Muth,  the  manager,  who  wanted  a  guar- 
anty. De  Muth  insisted  that  the  engagement  was  a 
* '  long  chance ' ' ;  aside  from  Burton  the  people  were  un- 
known, the  play  was  untried  in  English ;  under  the  cir- 
cumstances he  could  not  turn  his  theatre  over  without 
some  sort  of  a  pledge.  Freeman  was  about  to  take  a 
conciliatory  tone  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  mana- 
ger had  already  spent  some  money  in  advertising  the 


104  POISONED   BARBARISM. 

attraction.  He  suddenly  assumed  an  arbitrary  manner ; 
the  Protony  Dramatic  Company  had  proved  an  unquali- 
fied success  in  Chicago ;  it  could  offer  a  good  guaranty, 
"but  it  never  had  done  so  and  certainly  would  not  do  so 
now.  If  Mr.  De  Muth  doubted  the  company's  drawing 
power  the  engagement  would  be  cancelled  then  and 
there.  He  rose  as  if  to  go.  Protony,  who  did  not  catch 
Freeman's  motive,  interposed  nervously;  let  the  engage- 
ment go  on  for  two  or  three  nights,  he  pleaded ;  if  the 
business  was  not  satisfactory  a  guaranty  would  be 
given.  De  Muth  quickly  assented  to  the  compromise. 
"Unless  you  have  money  or  can  get  it  you  are 
putting  yourself  in  a  dangerous  position,"  remarked 
Freeman  to  Protony,  in  leaving  the  manager's  office. 
Protony  could  see  no  danger  and  Freeman  said  nothing 
more  in  explanation. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  COURSE  OP  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES. 

"Protony  has  more  nerve  than  I  supposed,"  ob- 
served Ross. 

"In  what  respect?"  Laura  asked. 

"By  not  keeping  his  dates  in  the  Northwest — 
which  means  that  he  will  have  those  fellows  against 
him  in  the  future— and  by  coming  back  here  in  the 
deadest  part  of  a  dead  season." 

He  offered  himself  as  escort  to  and  from  the  thea- 
tre. Laura  would  'have  accepted  but  for  the  idea  that 
Protony,  with  his  jealousy  aroused,  could  not  give  his 
best  to  the  production  of  "Modern  Love".  She  found 
Protony  and  Robert  Ringold  on  the  stage  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  the  time  called  for  rehearsal.  The 
journalist's  earnest  countenance  relaxed  to  smiling 
amiability  at  sight  of  her.  They  shook  hands  warmly, 
she  purposely  pressing  warmth  to  covert  effusiveness 
pursuant  to  that  instinct  of  coquetry  which  emboldens 
women,  however  modest,  to  fluster  bashful  men  who 
find  women  inscrutable. 

The  company  had  memorized  the  lines  on  the  road 
and,  generally,  had  an  intelligent  conception  of  the 
respective  characters.  The  rehearsal  promised  to  be 
free  from  difficulties  until  Ringold  from  a  seat  in  the 
auditorium  interposed  with  suggestions  that  were  rev- 
elations. Laura  did  not  recognize  her  bashful  friend. 
He  was  transformed.  Once  absorbed  in  the  work  on 
the  stage  he  knew  neither  actor  or  actress.  To  him 
they  were  characters  in  a  drama.  He  was  earnestly 
insistent  upon  simplicity  of  tone  and  action.  "Divest 
yourself  of  theatricality,"  he  pleaded.  "Forget  that 
you  are  in  a  theatre;  forget  that  you  are  actors.  Be 

(105) 


106          THE  COURSE  OF  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES. 

Curran,  the  laborer;  Lizzie,  his  daughter;  be  the  re- 
creant Lorrin  for  a  couple  of  hours." 

Laura  satisfied  (him.  Her  brief  but  trying  experi- 
ences with  the  world— with  men,  specially — permitted 
her  to  have  a  sympathetic  appreciation  of  Lizzie.  The 
vital  truth  of  the  final  scene— the  daring,  vibrant  lines 
—she  carried  with  direct  conviction  that  thrilled  even 
at  rehearsal. 

"You  read  those  lines  as  though  you  felt  them,  as 
though  they  had  a  personal  application,"  murmured 
Carr  maliciously. 

"And  you  could  feel  nothing  except  envy  and  jeal- 
ousy. Nothing  but  an  advance  agent  could  be  per- 
sonal to  you." 

The  allusion  made  Carr  burn.  This  was  the  first 
intimation  she  had  that  her  relations  with  Freeman 
were  suspected.  She  told  him  of  Laura's  retort  and 
was  consoled  with:  "Never  mind,  they'll  all  be  out  of 
an  engagement  before  the  end  of  the  week— all  but 
you.  I've  got  something  for  you.  The  play  will  fail 
and  I  '11  bet  De  Muth  will  close  the  theatre  on  Protony. ' ' 
He  spoke  prophetically.  The  first  night  audience 
was  small  and  was  made  up  largely  of  journalists  and 
"paper".  Phelon,  who  had  come  up  from  West  Baden 
—where  he  went  in  a  collapse  of  nerves — applauded 
scene  after  scene.  But  he  was  quite  alone  in  approv- 
ing the  play,  during  and  after  the  performance.  He 
wrote  a  full  column  of  his  finest  prose  in  praise  of 
the  drama,  of  Ringold's  skillful  adaptation,  of  Laura's 
and  Burton's  appreciative  interpretation.  Other 
critics  pronounced  the  thing  a  wild  fling  at  originality, 
absurd  in  result.  The  second  night— hot,  atmosphere- 
less—there  were  about  fifty  auditors ;  at  the  third,  less 
than  that.  The  next  day  at  five  o'clock  De  Muth  sent 
for  Protony;  "You  are  running  away  behind.  The  re- 
ceipts have  not  covered  the  cost  of  janitor  service. 
Protony,  you'll  have  to  turn  in  five  hundred  dollars." 

Protony  was  impregnated  with  what  he  supposed 
to  be  the  artistic  failure  of  "Modern  Love";  the  finan- 
cial loss  had  not  as  yet  given  him  much  concern;  he 
had  not  thought  of  De  Muth  at  all.  The  manager's 


THE  COURSE  OF  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES.          107 

reminder  brought  him  to  earth  with  something  of  a 
shock.  Without  a  concrete  idea  of  where  he  could  get 
the  money  he  promised  to  meet  the  demand  "to- 
morrow." 

"To-morrow  won't  do,  Protony.  If  you  don't  pay 
in  five  hundred  dollars  by  seven  o'clock  the  curtain 
will  not  go  up." 

To  Protony 's  perturbed  mind  all  the  gross  power  of 
the  heavy,  swarthy  face— with  its  vulgar  black  eyes, 
vulgar  nose,  vulgar  lips— and  the  big  ponderous  body 
seemed  to  give  a  pihysical  substantiation  to  the  threat. 
De  Muth  got  up  and  went  to  the  door,  in  sign  that 
he  had  delivered  his  ultimatum.  Protony,  enfeebled, 
subjugated,  could  not  but  follow.  Outside— in  the  air 
— he  had  a  better  command  of  himself.  But  the  clearer 
brain  gave  no  encouragement.  To  whom  should  he 
apply?  He  feverishly  recalled  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances; he  had  many,  but  none  was  a  likely 
lender;  they  were  actors,  journalists,  former  pupils — 
a  barren  field  which  would  not  yield  a  large  loan. 

At  the  end  he  thought  of  Fix;  the  very  man— he 
hesitated.  No;  Fix  had  wired  he  would  do  nothing 
more;  moreover,  "The  Millionaire"  had  not  been  billed 
at  the  Prairie.  Yet— yet— yes,  he  would  do  it;  he 
would  take  off  "Modern  Love"  and  put  on  "The  Mil- 
lionaire" for  the  rest  of  the  engagement  in  considera- 
tion of  the  loan.  He  stepped  into  the  writing  room 
of  an  hotel,  wrote  a  note  to  Fix,  called  for  a  messenger 
and  waited.  The  reply  came  within  a  few  minutes. 
It  was  laconic  but  decisive;  the  negative  "No"  was 
boldly  written  across  his  own  missive.  That  was  all; 
no  address,  no  signature.  The  refusal,  aggravated  by 
its  insulting  manner,  extinguished  him.  He  renounced 
the  shamed  suggestion  that  had  crossed  and  countered 
within  him  while  he  was  awaiting  Fix's  answer  to  see 
Ross.  A  rebuff  from  that  man — who  inspired  him  with 
a  strange  commingled  feeling  of  hate,  jealousy,  detes- 
tation—would mean  lingering  degradation. 

As  a  final  fling,  he,  in  turn,  resolved  upon  an  ulti- 
matum. Returning  to  the  theatre  he  fronted  De  Muth 
with:  "De  Muth,  you'll  have  to  take  chances  with  me 


108          THE  COUESE  OF  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES. 

on  this  thing  ["you'll  have  to"  was  given  in  an 
aggressive  emphasis]  ;  I've  thought  the  matter  over  and 
have  decided  not  to  borrow  money.  If  agreeable  to 
you  we'll  produce  'The  Millionaire'.  The  change  of 
bill  may  help  us  out.  What  do  you  say?" 

The  manager  gave  him  a  metallic  look.  "When  he 
opened  his  thick  fleshy  mouth  it  was  to  say:  "Stay 
here  a  minute;  you'll  hear  what  I  have  to  say."  He 
called  an  office  boy:  "Tell  Hoyt  to  come  here."  The 
boy  dashed  out  and  presently  returned  with  a  spare 
individual  covered  with  overalls  and  a  blouse  that  were 
flecked  with  varicolored  paint— evidently  the  scenic 
artist.  "Hoyt,"  fairly  shouted  De  Muth,  "make  a  big 
sign  with  the  words  'Theatre  closed  for  the  rest  of 
the  week'  and  put  it  out  on  the  sidewalk.  We've 
struck  the  first  frost  since  I've  been  here  and  you  bet 
there'll  not  be  another.  Protony,"  turning  to  him, 
' '  it  will  take  Hoyt  about  five  minutes  to  make  that  sign. 
You'll  have  five  minutes  to  put  up  five  hundred  dol- 
lars." 

The  fellow 's  brutal  arbitrariness  crushed  Protony, 
who,  in  his  disorganized  state,  appealed  for  mercy. 
"Mr.  De  Muth,  I  really  tried  to  raise  some  money  but 
could  not.  There  are  only  three  more  nights ;  suppose 
we  go  on  with  some  other  play.  But— but— if  you  must 
close  your  house  at  least  shield  me  in  some  way— let 
me  announce  that  Burton  or  Miss  Darnby  is  too  ill 
to  act." 

Protony  had  hardly  spoken  the  last  word  when  he 
saw  that  he  had  made  a  fatal  mistake  in  pleading  with 
the  brute.  De  Muth's  change  of  expression  from  what 
had  been  merely  feigned  sternness  to  genuine  anger  re- 
vealed that  he  had  suspected  Protony  had  some  finan- 
cial resource;  but  the  confession  convinced  him  to  the 
contrary. 

' '  Get  out  of  here  before  I  kick  you  out. ' ' 

The  notice  was  placarded  by  the  time  Protony 
reached  the  curbstone.  He  gazed  at  it  in  helpless  humil- 
iation. Two  boys  stopped  to  look  at  the  sign.  "Gee,  I 
wonder  what 's  the  matter  ? ' '  The  remark  arrested  sev- 
eral passers-by.  Presently  the  group  facing  the  lobby 


THE  COURSE  OF  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES.  109 

was  so  large  that  it  prevented  free  circulation.  It  was 
necessary  for  a  policeman's  "Move  on,  gents!"  to  clear 
the  sidewalk.  The  news  of  the  closure  reached  the 
near-by  saloons  and  restaurants;  from  here  it  floated 
to  all  the  theatres  and  newspaper  offices.  The  legend 
stared  at  Laura,  who  was  accompanied  by  Rosenau,  a 
block  away. 

"Come;  we  might  as  well  go  back,"  she  said,  point- 
ing to  the  black  letters  on  the  white  background.  The 
Jewess '  mouth  was  more  expressive  than  were  her  eyes ; 
the  foirmer  trembled  with  surprise;  the  latter  were 
void  as  she  turned  them  on  Laura  in  blank  inquiry. 

"Oh,  Protony,  Protony,  I  suppose.  He  has  no 
business  sense.  He's  placed  us  in  a  nice  position. 
This  will  help  our  reputation." 

The  ironical  prophecy  seemed  to  be  fulfilled  by  the 
way  the  press  exploited  the  incident — The  Forum  ex- 
cepted.  Phelon,  in  a  few  lines,  censured  the  house 
management.  A  column,  with  scare  head  lines,  on  the 
front  page,  told  of  the  fiasco  in  the  other  papers.  The 
unanimous  reason  chosen  was  "the  repellent  character 
of  the  play,  which  shocked  the  moral  sense  of  the 
community."  Burrows  sententiously  added:  "Had  a 
clean,  wholesome  drama  like  'The  Charity  Ball'  been 
given  the  theatre  had  not  have  been  closed.  As  it 
is,  the  public  has  administered  a  just  rebuke." 

For  two  days  Protony 's  courage  was  at  a  low  ebb. 
He  could  face  no  one,  so  held  to  'his  room.  The  posi- 
tion at  the  hotel  of  Laura,  Carr  and  Rosenau  was  dis- 
agreeable for  a  time.  They  were  the  recipients  of  con- 
dolences from  the  women  guests,  that  were  much  more 
insufferable  than  had  been  broad  stares  and  plain 
sneers.  Assumptions  of  profound  sympathy  were 
pressed  upon  them,  and  this  the  next  day,  was  followed 
by  greetings  of  exaggerated  politeness.  One  man  was 
effective :  Ross  knocked  at  Laura 's  door  the  morning 
after  the  failure  and  stood  in  the  doorway  long  enough 
to  say:  "If  I  can  do  anything  for  you  I  beg  of  you 
to  command  me.  Don't  worry." 

The  third  day  she  got  a  long  letter  from  Protony. 
He  began  by  saying  it  was  a  critical  time  and  that  he 


110          THE  COUESE  OF  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES. 

would  put  her  to  the  test.  He  was  much  to  blame  for 
the  differences  that  had  existed  between  them,  he  ac- 
knowledged, but  was  she  wholly  blameless?  However, 
there  was  no  use  in  recalling  the  past.  It  were  useless 
to  remain  in  Chicago.  After  all,  Chicago  was  a  provin- 
cial town  and  the  "West"  had  been  well-named  the 
"Rowdy  West".  Nothing  would  go  out  here  except 
farce,  melodrama  or  a  tawdy  play.  In  New  York  he 
was  sure  of  finding  appreciation.  There— the  real 
home  of  dramatic  art— he  would  be  understood.  Above 
all,  the  East  was  the  place  for  her.  She  was  sure  of 
winning  fame  in  a  Broadway  theatre.  He  proposed, 
then,  that  they  go  together.  He  confessed  that  he  had 
very  little  money  left,  yet  he  had  enough  for  a  few 
months  of  Bohemian  existence— the  amount  would  sus- 
tain them  until  he  or  she  shall  have  found  something 
to  do.  Would  she  go  with  him  ? 

She  held  the  note  in  her  hand  for  some  time— think- 
ing. He  had  been  much  to  her ;  he  was  now  much  less 
to  her.  Her  augmenting  indifference  to  him  was  due 
not  so  much  to  his  failures  as  to  his  strictly  personal 
defects— his  weakness,  his  extreme  selfishness.  Still, 
she  had  been  attached  to  him.  And  it  was  he  who 
had  rescued  her  from  Darnby;  he  who  had  taught 
her  all  she  knew  of  dramatic  art,  who  had  given 
her  an  opportunity.  Besides,  he  undoubtedly  was 
talented;  he  had  the  art  instinct;  he  was  refined,  cul« 
tured.  And— and— the  natural,  the  ineradicable  want 
—however  talented — of  woman— however  strong  of 
character — however  worldly — of  a  male  companion,  a 
protector,  indeed,  inclined  her  to  his  proposal,  provided 
—provided— yes,  it  must  be.  She  must  have  a  lawful 
standing  with  >him;  she  must  be  his  wife.  Since  her 
departure  from  Darnby,  she  had  felt  the  tacit  taunts, 
the  impalpable  jibes,  the  covert  insinuations;  heard 
the  undertone  innuendoes;  perceived  the  invisible 
looks  of  superiority  which  women  convey,  not  the  less 
effectively  because  they  are  implied,  to  those  whose 
social  status  deviates  from  rigid  regularity;  and  the 
subtle,  complex  implications  affected  her  keenly.  Pro- 
tony  she  knew  thoroughly,  and  knowing  him  did  not 


THE  COURSE  OF  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES.          Ill 

fear  him.  He  was  of  a  fine  mould,  susceptible  to  cer- 
tain influences. 

Her  answer  was  brief  and  pointed :  "I  will  go  with 
you  as  your  wife,  so  that  if  poverty  must  be  endured 
for  at  least  a  while,  we  may  share  it  together,  with 
respect  for  ourselves." 

To  him  it  was  an  unexpected  reply.  He  had 
awaited  it  with  feverish  impatience,  hope  and  fear 
alternating.  Her  note  bewildered  him.  Calmed,  his 
first  impulse  sent  him  to  the  writing  desk  to  accept  the 
proposal.  He  dipped  the  pen ;  but  in  thinking  on  what 
form  of  endearment  the  address  should  take,  he  hesi- 
tated. From  this  indecision  his  thoughts  strayed  to 
the  deep  importance  of  the  reply  he  was  about  to  write. 
He  paused— and  in  that  pause  the  course  of  two  lives 
changed. 

He  began  to  analyze.  After  all,  this  was  a  very 
serious  matter.  His  affection  for  her  was  prompted 
by  absolute  egoism  and  its  quality  was  almost  wholly 
physical;  it  was  charged  with  a  feverish  admiration 
but  was  destitute  of  pure  esteem.  And— and— in 
every  man  of  some  thought  and  culture  there  is  an 
ideal  of  morality  for  women  as  well  as  an  ideal  of  a 
fair  woman.  This  ideal  proscribes  sensuality;  it  is  in- 
nocent of  sensuousness  even.  It  is  associated  with 
white  purity.  Later,  as  one  breathes  the  world's 
vitiated  atmosphere,  the  ideal  is  lost;  but  it  returns 
at  a  critical  moment,  long  enough  to  compel  a  com- 
parison. The  ideal  visited  Protony  the  second  time — 
the  first  was  the  day  following  Laura's  divorce.  Since 
then?  She  was  changed.  She  was  of  a  stronger  char- 
acter, more  worldly,  her  talent  more  developed.  Mor- 
ally? He  did  not  know.  He  hardly  suspected.  He 
merely  feared,  a  fear  prompted  by  jealousy.  No  mat- 
ter, the  transient,  and  transcendant  vision  of  what 
ought  to  be  challenged  a  comparison.  He  was  resolved 
upon  No. 

Furthermore,— here  the  ego  revealed  itself  in  all 
its  cowardly  selfishness— she  might,  after  all,  prove  a 
burden  professionally  and  otherwise.  She  was  abso- 
lutely unknown  in  the  East.  There  was  always  a 


112  THE  COUESE  OF  TWO  LIVES  CHANGES. 

swarm  of  gifted  actresses  in  New  York  seeking  engage- 
ments. He  recalled  the  ingenious  and  ingenuous  peti- 
tions; the  maneuvers  and  the  subtle  intrigues,  the 
vicarious  and  the  personal  entreaties  to  get  an  audi- 
ence with  leading  managers;  young  women  and  old, 
beautiful  and  unprepossessing,  rich  and  poor;  of  social 
distinction,  of  notoriety,  of  humble  origin;  moral  and 
immoral  women  of  every  possibility  and  impossibility 
—women  without  number  who  were  burning  to  have 
a  trial  in  New  York.  Decidedly  she  might  be  a  burden ; 
he  certainly  would  not  marry. 

His  reply  was  brief;  he  had  changed  his  plans  and 
would  go  alone. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EASTWAED  HO! 

Masculine  insight  and  feminine  instinct  told  Laura 
the  reason.  The  same  prescience  promised  her  that 
he  would  regret  his  decision.  The  while,  she  was 
humiliated,  for  this  was  the  second  time  he  had  rejected 
her.  The  first  time  her  willingness  was  implied  and 
his  refusal  tacit.  Now  she  offered  herself  frankly  and 
he  refused  pointedly.  His  answer  gave  her  a  very 
vivid  and  extremely  realistic  idea  of  what  Shakes- 
peare meant  when  he  wrote  of  the  woman  scorned. 
Never  before  had  she  wished  him  harm;  to-day  she 
would  like  to  torture  him,  to  rankle  his  soul,  to  dis- 
tress his  mind  excruciatingly.  The  spirit  of  retaliation 
consumed  her.  To  disturb  his  existence  effectively, 
to  acquaint  him  once  and  for  all  of  the  impossibility 
to  live  without  her  she  must— what  ?  He  would  go  to 
New  York  in  a  day  or  two.  Then  why  not— a  some- 
thing confused;  a  nebulous  hope,  an  undefined  aspira- 
tion, a  nameless  timidity  swirled  around  the  central 
thought  of  reprisal.  Yet  if  Protony  could  succeed 
there  why  not  she? 

She  would  go.  Ross  would  lend  her  money— but, 
no;  that  wouldnU  do.  She  must  not  go  deeper  into 
his  obligations,  although  of  late  he  had  become  as 
deferential  in  his  manner  as  he  had  been  bold  and  in- 
trusive when  she  first  came  to  the  hotel.  Why  not 
Rebecca  Rosenau  ?  Perhaps  the  Jewess  would  go  with 
her.  Laura  knew  that  Rebecca  had  a  little  money  and 
could  get  more  if  necessary,  for  it  had  been  confided  to 
Laura  that  there  was  a  brother  somewhere  in  the 
Northwest  who  now  and  again  sent  money,  a  brother 
of  whom  Rebecca  seemed  fond  and  yet  ashamed,  who 


114  EASTWAED  HO! 

was  a  mining  camp  follower  selling  miscellaneous  mer- 
chandise at  exorbitant  prices. 

"What  a  coincidence,"  Rebecca  answered  when 
Laura  made  known  her  intentions.  "My  very  idea. 
I've  been  thinking  of  going  to  New  Yerk  since  they 
shut  the  door  on  Protony." 

They  planned  to  go  within  the  week.  Laura  being 
absolutely  without  means,  Rebecca  divided  half  her 
funds.  The  Jewess  knew  New  York.  She  had  seen 
in  a  theatrical  paper — she  was  an  omnivorous  reader  of 
professional  periodicals— several  addresses  where  on- 
the-road  companies  and  players  "at  liberty"  made 
their  headquarters;  not  boarding  houses  exactly,  but 
places  where  one  could  engage  rooms  at  reasonable 
rates.  She  particularly  had  in  mind  Quincy's  in  Forty- 
second  street.  Would  Laura  go  there?  Certainly! 
Of  course!  Laura  would  agree  to  anything  Rebecca 
suggested;  indeed,  she  acknowledged  that,  entirely 
unacquainted  with  New  York  as  she  was,  she  de- 
pended upon  Rebecca;  "Then,  you  know,  borrowers 
must  not  be  ohoosers." 

Rebecca  dismissed  the  allusion  to  the  obligation  with 
a  negative  gesture ;  all  that  she  asked  of  Laura  was  to 
be  a  true  friend.  She  had  been  disillusioned  in  her 
friendship  with  Miss  Carr.  She  wanted  an  enduring 
friend,  a  trustworthy  chum.  Sincere  in  the  main,  there 
was  just  a  fine  thread  of  calculation  in  Rebecca's  pro- 
posal of  fast  friendship ;  she  divined  a  future  in  Laura 
whose  developing  talent  she  had  perceived  quicker  than 
Protony ;  she  wished  to  be  associated  with  a  successful 
person,  feeling  rather  than  knowing  that  success  and 
failure  are  inductive  forces  which  influence  their  en- 
tourage. 

When  Ross  heard,  through  the  clerk  whom  Rosenau 
had  notified,  of  Laura's  intended  departure,  he  imme- 
diately went  to  her.  Wouldn't  she  remain  a  fortnight 
longer?  By  that  time  he  would  have  charge  of  the 
Waldborough  Hotel  in  New  York,  for  which  negotia- 
tions were  closed  only  yesterday.  Some  change  in  the 
management  would  be  made  between  time;  after  that 
he  would  be  happy  indeed  to  accommodate  her  and 


EASTWARD  HO!  115 

Miss  Rosenau.  It— she  interrupted  .him  with  the  inac- 
curate statement  that  they  had  already  made  their 
arrangements. 

"Where?"  he  asked  quickly. 

She  named  "The  Quincy,"  giving  the  address. 

He  seemed  .relieved— Laura  did  not  exactly  know 
why.  He  hoped  she  would  meet  with  a  big  success. 
He  would  esteem  it  a  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  call, 
for  he  proposed  spending  much  time  in  New  York,  at 
least  until  the  hotel  he  had  leased  was  fairly  estab- 
lished according  to  his  plan. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  CITY  OF  THE  EIALTO. 

It  was  Rebecca's  information  that  the  country  be- 
tween Chicago  and  Albany  was  flat  and  unpicturesque, 
so  Laura  paid  no  heed  to  the  fleeting  panorama  made  by 
the  eastward  special  upon  which  the  Jewess  had  se- 
cured half  fares  for  two,  and  devoted  the  hours  to  tHe 
French  version  of  "Anna  Karenina." 

When  the  train  moved  out  of  the  Albany  station — 
slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  as  if  it  were  regretfully 
leaving  an  old  friend— Rebecca  looked  up  from  the 
original  of  Freitag's  "Soil  und  Haben"  to  observe: 
' '  I  think  you  '11  find  it  worth  while  from  now  on.  We  '11 
cross  the  Hudson  in  a  minute." 

The  first  sight  of  the  stream  gave  Laura  a  thrill. 
The  lifting  sensation  was  not  imparted  by  beauty  of 
scenery— for  the  Hudson  at  Albany  is  neither  pictur- 
esque nor  majestic — but  by  the  imagination  of  the 
observer  which  recalled  the  Driver's  historic  associa- 
tions—associations legendary,  literacy,  dramatic. 
Laura  had  a  vision  of  her  school  days ;  that  class  book 
with  its  high  colored  selections  from  the  history  of  the 
Revolutionary  War — an  excerpt  relating  to  Benedict 
Arnold  stood  out— came  back  as  she  gazed  with  avid- 
ity at  the  sluggishly  moving  waters.  She  thought  of 
the  Dutch  settlers  who— the  bridge  was  crossed.  The 
river  disappeared. 

1 '  Is  that  all  ? "  she  asked  disappointedly. 

"All?  Why,  we'll  see  it  all  the  way  to  New  York. 
There,  it  is  again ! ' ' 

There  was  a  recurrence  of  the  rush  of  studious 
reminiscences  instantly  the  sinuous  stream  reappeared. 

(116) 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  RIALTO.  117 

How  it  glistened  under  the  afternoon  sun,  between  the 
rounded,  undulating  hills!  Laura's  memory  harked 
back  to  Washington  Irving,  to  the  many  romances  with 
which  the  Hudson  is  interwoven.  The  train  as  it  sped 
along  the  left  bank  seemed  happy  to  be  moving  amid 
this  beaming  beauty  of  nature.  The  wheels  as  they 
turned  swiftly  alongside  the  waters  clanked  in  amiable 
and  confident  intimacy  with  the  country  traversed. 
There  was  no  need  of  caution.  A  half  a  century  of 
familiarity,  of  friendship  between  the  railway  and  the 
river  permitted  any  degree  of  speed  without  incurring 
danger.  Curves  were  made  confidently,  even  merrily. 
"Don't  be  uneasy ;  I  know  it's  all  right.  The  river,  the 
hills  and  I  are  old  friends.  We  have  known  each  other 
a  long  time.  This  is  my  country ;  I  rejoice  in  it.  I  may 
run  along  here  with  impunity.  Signals  and  folderols 
of  that  kind  are  not  needed  in  these  regions,"  the 
engine  appeared  to  say. 

West  Point,  on  a  hill's  bosom,  evoked  a  monument 
of  martial  heroes  whose  white  marble  had  but  one  yel- 
low blemish — Benedict  Arnold. 

There  was  a  rift  into  a  nightmare  when  "Sing 
Sing"  was  shouted  in  the  coach.  The  name  recalled 
a  description  of  prison  life  she  had  read  in  a  periodical 
issued  from  this  penitentiary  and  written  and  pub- 
lished by  convicts ;  the  spot  conjured  up  a  damned  pro- 
cession of  round,  guilty  heads— blue  jaws,  leaden  eyes 
—carried  by  heavy  shouldered  machine-like  bodies. 
The  vision  of  expiating  souls  vanished  when  the  train 
again  dashed  into  the  sunlight. 

Now  the  summer  homes,  on  the  hill  tops,  became 
more  numerous,  more  pretentious.  And  as  the  stream 
broadened,  it  flowed  more  swiftly.  The  cuts  and  tun- 
nels increased  in  number  and  rockiness.  A  whisk 
around  a  curve  and  the  river  disappeared.  The  hills, 
smaller  here,  were  as  huge  stones  beset  with  habita- 
tions. A  high,  immense  bridge  was  passed  under ;  then 
another;  then  yet  another.  The  houses  became  serried. 
The  train  slackened— its  speed,  its  air  of  intimacy,  of 
confidence,  of  conspicuousness  was  gone— it  moved 
slowly  deferentially,  as  something  inconspicuous  and 


118  THE  CITY  OF  THE  EIALTO. 

insignificant  amid  an  immense  vastness  of  important 
things.  Streets  well-ordered,  clean— some  quite  white 
— flitted  by.  Of  a  sudden,  there  was  darkness.  The 
cars  were  plunged  into  night,  and  for  what  seemed  to 
Laura  an  endless  time  rumbled  in  a  Cimmerian  world. 
Just  as  suddenly  the  train  emerged  from  the  black  hole. 
For  not  many  seconds  there  was  complete  light;  then 
the  semi-obscurity  of  a  massive  station,  with  a  vitreous 
canopy  obscured  by  the  steam  and  smoke  from  count- 
less, restive  engines,— New  York ! 

Laura  apprehended  a  difference— perceived  some- 
thing new  in  her  experience  of  cities— directly  she 
stepped  from  the  coach. 

The  luggage  boy  who  carried  her  grip  to  the  front 
of  the  depot  was  different.  He  was  unfamiliarly  polite 
and  expressed  his  thanks  with  modulated  respect  when 
she  gave  him  a  coin,  as  a  pupil  to  a  woman  teacher  to 
whom  he  is  partial.  She  noticed  a  difference  in  his 
pronunciation,  which  was  even  more  marked  in  a  lad, 
who  at  the  exit  cried  "Joinal!  Joinal!  All  about  the 
East  Side  moida!" 

Once  on  the  curbstone  the  difference  was  epic.  The 
first  glance  at  the  surroundings,  the  first  breath  of  the 
air  filled  her  with  delight.  The  thoroughfares  were 
clean,  the  atmosphere  was  pure,  smokeless;  the  build- 
ings stood  out  bold,  untarnished.  Laura  felt  a  dis- 
tinction in  the  very  air  of  the  city,  which  at  once  awed 
and  quickened  her  emotions. 

"You  like  it,  don't  you?"  observed  Rosenau,  noting 
Laura's  dazzled  expression.  She  took  a  long  breath 
and  continued:  "So  do  I — it  is  almost  the  perfection 
of  civilization." 

Almost!  Surprise  at  the  qualification  shadowed 
itself  on  Laura's  face. 

"I've  been  abroad— I've  been  in  Paris,"  the  Jew- 
ess explained.  "Look,  isn't  that  a  balm  for  outraged 
eyes?" 

The  rows  of  thick  copses  made  graceful  lines  in  the 
center  of  the  street  they  were  fronting.  The  green 
chains  extended  a  pert  de  vue  and  made  a  reposeful 


THE  CITY  OF  THE   RIALTO.  119 

contrast  to  the  urban  quality  of  the  broad,  white-paved 
way. 

The  tramway  for  which  they  were  waiting  jingled 
up  to  the  depot.  Laura  followed  her  companion  into 
the  unoccupied  car,  placed  her  bag  on  the  seat  and 
continued  her  observation  from  the  window.  At  the 
top  of  a  knoll  Rebecca  exclaimed  in  a  tone  betokening 
a  sort  of  vicarious  proprietorship:  "And  this  is  Fifth 
Avenue." 

The  horses  were  trotting  rapidly,  so  that  Laura 
had  only  a  glimpse  of  the  Avenue ;  but  the  apparitional 
view  impressed  her  as  a  picture  of  an  undulating, 
palatial  vista ;  the  hard,  smooth,  lustrous  carriage  way, 
fringed  with  stately  electric  light  posts  and  back  of 
these  a  kaleidoscope  of  crenelated  edifices  of  every 
variety  of  opulent  architecture;  nabob's  residences; 
clubs  and  hotels  of  imposing  magnificence;  churches 
of  secular  splendor. 

Laura  was  not  yet  in  the  second  thought  of  Fifth 
Avenue  when  Rebecca  declaimed  triumphantly:  "And 
this  is  Broadway." 

Broadway  had  announced  itself  without  this  notice. 
Narrow  and  serpentine,  the  street  charged  with  hu- 
manity and  traffic  emitted  a  gamut  of  sounds  which 
blended  in  what  Laura  thought  was  an  unsuccess- 
fully suppressed  roar.  Between  the  pavements  was 
every  manner  of  vehicles  and  between  these  were  tram 
cars— narrowly  spaced,  though  gliding  swiftly— seem- 
ingly urged  to  speed  by  the  clangs  of  gongs.  On  the 
trottoir,  an  endless  stream  of  men  and  women,  young 
and  old,  attractive  and  unprepossessing,  silent  yet 
active ;  nearly  all  well  attired ;  all  having  the  cachet  of 
that  urban  sophistication  which  is  revealed  far  more  in 
appearance  than  in  words.  They  made  a  somber 
border  to  the  winding  mass  of  uneven  buildings  with 
their  high-colored,  loudly  appealing  advertisements. 
From  Broadway  there  was  a  slight  slope  and  near  the 
bottom  Rosenau  signaled  the  conductor  to  stop.  Walk- 
ing back  half  way  from  the  corner  they  stopped  midway 
in  a  block  crammed  with  a  church,  inferior  shops,  a 
restaurant  or  two  and  mansions  deteriorated  to  lodg- 


120  THE  CITY  OF  THE   RIALTO. 

ing  and  boarding  houses.  A  tousled,  red-haired  Irish 
girl,  with  rolled-up  sleeves,  showing  big  ruddy  arms  and 
a  slatternly  dress  pulled  up  at  the  left  hip,  disclosing 
heavy  feet  and  thick  ankles,  said  "Sure,  yiss,  this  is 
Mrs.  Quincy's.  Cumm  roight  in!" 

Going  to  the  door  indicated,  on  the  right  from  the 
vestibule,  in  a  room  of  bare-worn  furniture  and  walls 
covered  with  photographs  of  theatrical  people,  was 
seated,  reading  the  New  York  Dramatic  Reflector,  a 
short  rotund  woman,  from  whom,  though  on  the  un- 
safe side  of  forty,  there  had  not  yet  been  banished 
every  trace  of  physical  beauty.  An  immense  growth 
of  black,  dishevelled  hair,  with  gray  threads  about  the 
temples,  topped  a  round,  rather  heavy  and  good- 
humored  countenance. 

"Looking  for  rooms?"  she  asked  briskly,  without 
rising.  "Sit  down.  You  want  them  adjoining?  For 
haw  long?" 

Rebecca  started  to  answer  that  their  tenancy  would 
be  indefinite,  when  she  was  interrupted  with: 

"Oh,  out  of  work.  I  see.  Then  I  suppose  you  will 
take  one  room  jointly  until  you  get  an  engagement. 
Your  name,  please.  I  suppose  you  know  I'm  Mrs. 
Quincy." 

In  showing  what  she  called  her  "apartments",  Mrs. 
Quincy  explained  that  she  now  had  a  lease  on  the  houses 
on  either  side,  the  three  having  been  accessible  to  each 
other  by  puncturing  the  walls.  She  had  begun  with 
one  house,  and  then  took  the  other  two.  "You  would 
suppose  that  I  would  have  all  my  rooms  occupied  in 
the  silly  season ;"  but,  no,  they  were  mostly  unoccupied. 
The  class  of  Artists— she  pronounced  it  "Ahtists"- 
who  came  to  her  always  found  engagements  in  summer 
theatres  at  the  sea  shore  or  in  the  mountains.  She  had 
a  few  permanent  lodgers,  talented  young  men  and 
women  working  hard  for  a  wider  recognition  in  stock 
companies.  "This,  I  think,  is  about  what  you  want." 

She  flung  a  door,  as  she  swerved  from  her  explana- 
tions, in  a  wide  low  room,  with  two  windows  that  gazed 
upon  a  back  yard  to  which  a  myriad  of  houses  turned 


THE  CITY  OF  THE   RIALTO.  121 

their  backs— a  piebald  spectacle  of  back  stairs,  back 
windows  and  loose  linen  in  process  of  purification. 

So  soon  as  the  young  women  had  decided  to  abide 
by  her  recommendation,  Mrs.  Quincy,  after  naming  ten 
dollars  a  week,  stated  baldly  that  under  the  circum- 
stances of  people  being  unknown  to  her  it  was  custom- 
ary to  receive  a  week's  rent  in  advance.  Rebecca  ac- 
quiesced instantly  with  "Assuredly;  of  course,"  and  in 
giving  the  money  inquired  sweetly,  "Were  you  ever  in 
the  profession,  Mrs.  Quincy  ? ' ' 

Just  a  bare  twitch  of  disconcertedness  betrayed 
itself  upon  the  landlady's  meaty  face.  She  was  quickly 
resolute,  however,  and  answered  frankly:  "Yes,  I  was 
in  vaudeville  until  I  married  Jack— Jack  Quincy,  who 
was  a  contractor.  Things  went  against  him  in  his  last 
years  and  when  he  died  I  was  too  cut  up  to  go  back 
to  variety— to  vaudeville— so  I  set  up  in  this  business." 

The  frank  acknowledgment  of  her  past  took  the 
sting  from  Rosenau's  thrust.  Laura  admired  the 
woman's  courage  and  honesty,  and  sincerely  expressed 
her  admiration.  Mrs.  Quincy  immediately  distin- 
guished her  preference  by  addressing  Laura  ex- 
clusively. She  would  do  her  best  to  help  Laura  to  an 
engagement.  She  would  suggest  theatres  and  mana- 
gers, adding :  "If  you  want  anything  about  the  room, 
let  me  know." 

The  next  morning  Laura  came  first  in  the  introduc- 
tions; and  in  presenting  the  Jewess  Mrs.  Quincy  de- 
liberately mispronounced  the  name  "Roseoff."  They 
were  introduced  to  two  musicians ;  to  a  stage  manager ; 
to  a  young  actor  of  subordinate  roles  at  the  Columbia 
Theatre;  to  three  actresses  of  indefinite  ages  and  defi- 
nite physical  development  who  were  "at  liberty"  pro- 
fessionally; to  a  half  dozen  coryphees,  all  fleshly  at- 
tractive, and  to  several  male  choristers.  The  coryphees 
and  the  choristers  were  working,  Mrs.  Quincy  observed, 
at  the  Alcazar,  where  "The  Peacock's  Paradise"  was 
running.  Then  she  suggested  that  they  take  their 
meals  at  the  French  restaurant  across  the  way— the 
prices  were  moderate  and  the  service  was  excellent — 
that  they  insert  a  card  in  The  Dramatic  Reflector  and 


122  THE   CITY  OF  THE  EIALTO. 

in  The  Mimic  World;  that  they  go  to  the  Redburn  and 
the  Dowling  agencies. 

They  acted  on  the  recommendation  at  once  by  go- 
ing to  Henri 's  for  breakfast.  Once  a  dwelling  for  a  staid 
New  York  family,  the  lower  floor  was  given  to  what 
the  sign  told  was  a  Cafe.  Nothing  had  been  changed 
architecturally.  The  basement  was  still  divided  into 
four  rooms,  now  crowded  with  ordinary  chairs  and 
plain  tables  covered  by  cloths  that  were  fairly  white. 
Laura  and  her  companion  were  told  in  English  with  a 
thick  French  coating  that  the  dinner  was  table  d'hote, 
at  fifty  cents,  breakfast  and  luncheon  were  "at  the 
discretion  of  the  ladies."  Rebecca  addressed  the 
waiter  in  French,  which  immediately  expanded  him 
to  easy  amiability.  Confidentially,  les  mademoiselles 
could  have  a  light  breakfast  for  barely  nothing  and 
luncheon  for  not  much  more.  Les  artistes  were  not 
particular  about  their  early  repasts— neither  was  mon- 
sieur le  patron.  He— the  waiter— brought  them  coffee 
and  rolls  and  eggs  a  la  coque  and  the  total  charge  for 
both  les  mademoiselles  was  forty  cents,  which  Rebecca 
thought  much  more  than  nothing  after  all.  "We  must 
be  economical  until  we  get  a  job,"  she  remarked 
gravely,  and  Laura  assented. 

They  started  for  the  hunt  directly,  though  Laura 
forgot  her  mission  when  in  the  full  swing  of  Broadway. 
Her  senses  were  holden  to  the  winding,  undulating  high- 
way of  sophisticated  humanity.  "This  part  of  the  city 
is  known  as  'The  Tenderloin,'"  Rebecca  explained. 
Then  she  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  low,  frail,  many  win- 
dowed and  architecturally  odd  building  whose  front 
was  lined  with  handsome,  clean  shaven  men  whom 
Laura  recognized  as  of  the  profession.  "And  this  is 
the  office  of  the  New  York  Dramatic  Reflector,  the  ac- 
tors' friend,  philosopher  and  guide."  Two  advertise- 
ments were  inserted:  "Laura  Darnby,  leading  lady, 
disengaged.  Address  The  Reflector.  Rebecca  Rosenau, 
general  utility,  disengaged.  Address  The  Reflector." 

Rebecca,  with  hereditary  enterprise— fully  aroused 
by  the  transaction  with  the  advertising  clerk— asked 
if  Mr.  Farnum  could  be  seen.  The  well-groomed,  com- 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EIALTO.  123 

fortable-bodied  editor  was  affable.  He  had  heard  of 
both  the  ladies  through  his  Chicago  correspondent, 
Bluff  Hill,  and  he  regretted  that  their  season  had  ended 
untowardly— Laura  thought  this  a  considerate  term 
for  a  sorry  fact.  His  tone  was  encouraging ;  they  soon 
would  make  a  connection  in  New  York.  He  would  keep 
them  in  mind.  They  must  not  forget  to  command  him 
in  any  way  he  could  serve  them.  In  his  absence,  Mr. 
Knoll— he  introduced  a  diminutive,  disappointed,  as- 
sistant editor— would  look  to  their  interests. 

On  their  way  to  the  office  of  The  Mimic  World 
Laura  looked  closer  at  the  clean  shaven  loiterers.  They 
were  not  all  young.  Some  had  white  hair,  seared  brows 
and  the  eye  that  tells  of  the  most  tragic  thing  in  life 
— lost  illusions.  The  second  scrutiny  also  showed  a 
sheen  on  the  clothes  that  proceeds  from  long  wear  and 
much  brushing.  While  the  collars  were  immaculate, 
the  cravats  were  broad  and  obviously  inexpensive. 
Here  and  there  a  woman  in  a  nondescript  gown,  dowd- 
ily  worn,  stood  talking  with  the  disillusioned-eyed  men ; 
women  of  lost  youth,  lost  waists,  fleshly,  formless  women 
with  painted  cheeks,  wan  eyes  and  thick,  fat  voices. 
They,  too,  were— or  had  been— of  the  profession.  How 
do  such  people— the  disillusioned,  indigent  actor  and 
actress— live?  What  were  their  thoughts?  What  sort 
of  an  existence  is  it  that  watches  for  the  crumbs  which 
do  not  always  fall  from  the  table  of  the  more  prosper- 
ous ?  Watching  with  old  age  upon  them !  And,  horror 
of  horrors,  they  were  creatures  of  some  sensibility, 
some  pride,  some  intelligence,  some  refinement,  who 
could  not  endure  poverty  and  degradation  with  the 
stolid,  brutish  indifference  of  the  multitude.  A  feeling 
of  mingled  pity  and  dread  seized  Laura.  She  felt  like 
taking  Rebecca's  arm  as  if  to  beseech  protection  from 
such  a  fate. 

At  the  office  of  The  Mimic  World  there  plainly  was 
less  prosperity  yet  even  more  affability  than  at  The 
Dramatic  Reflector— and  the  affability  had  the  air  of 
familiarity.  A  larger  card  was  inserted  here,  for  the 
rates  were  cheaper  by  one-half.  Back  of  the  business 
office  was  the  editorial  room  where  they  met  Mr.  Pear- 


124  THE   CITY   OF  THE   RIALTO. 

son,  who  instantly  assured  them,  with  give-and-take  in- 
timacy, that  The  Mimic  World  soon  would  replace  The 
Dramatic  Reflector  in  the  affections  of  the  profession. 
He  had  the  assurance  of  Mansfield  and  Southern,  of  Jef- 
ferson and  Crane,  of  Drew  and  Goodwin,  of  Adams  and 
Marlowe  and— he  dropped  his  voice  to  a  strictly  confi- 
dential tone— of  the  Frohmans— Charles  and  Daniel,  for 
Gustave  meant  nothing— that  they  would  exert  them- 
selves to  further  the  interests  of  The  Mimic  World.  He 
would  show  Farnum  how  to  run  a  dramatic  paper ;  would 
put  Farnum  in  a  position  where  the  receipts  of  Mrs.  Far- 
num's  tour  would  be  drawn  upon  to  meet  the  deficit 
of  The  Reflector.  As  he  proceeded  he  became  more 
heated.  He  emphasized  portentious  injuries  to  his  rival 
with  lurid  oaths.  Rebecca,  ever  ready  to  filch  an  ad- 
vantage from  a  situation,  glided  one  of  her  naively 
expressed  but  tactual  expressions  between  the  vituper- 
ative sentences:  "Mr.  Pearson,  are  the  chances  of  get- 
ting an  answer  to  a  card  in  The  Mimic  World  as  good 
as  in  The  Reflector  f  Your  rates  are  so  much  cheaper, 
you  know— that  is  why  I  ask?" 

"Chances  as  good!"  He  ejaculated.  "They  are 
better,  far  better;  and  what  is  more,  your  correspond- 
ence through  us  will  be  with  first-class  people,  not  with 
the  most  numerous  class  in  the  business,  the  class  of 
fools— the  one-night-stand  crew  that  uses  The  Reflector. 
Say"— this  with  sudden  transition— "Did  Farnum  say 
anything  about  me?" 

With  a  dart  of  malicious  mendacity— provoked  by 
the  possibility  that  the  prevarication  might  prove  of 
some  advantage  to  Laura  and  to  herself— Rebecca  re- 
joined that  Mr.  Farnum  had  advised  them  not  to  adver- 
tise in  The  Mimic  World,  for  they  would  throw  away 
their  money. 

With  this  Pearson  forgot  himself  altogether  and 
belched  forth  a  volley  of  garish  expletives  that  shocked 
even  Rebecca.  Why,  The  Reflector  was  notorious  for  its 
blackmailing  methods.  A  member  of  the  profession  at 
all  known  who  did  not  advertise  in  that  wretched  gut- 
ter rag  was  sure  of  being  roasted.  Why,  that  miserable 
insect  which  disgraces  the  name  of  journalism  solicits 


THE   CITY   OF  THE   EIALTO.  125 

the  photographs  of  actors,  playwrights  and  managers, 
prints  them  and  then  deliberately  demands  a  round 
sum  for  their  publication.  Its  constant  and  prolonged 
abuse  of  poor  Augustin  Daly— some  years  ago— was 
due  to  Daly's  refusal  to  be  held  up.  And  with  all  this 
the  dirty  sheet  doesn't  pay.  Farnum  has  to  keep  his 
wife  on  the  road  to  make  a  living  for  him.  He  offered 
the  support  of  his  miserable  paper  to  the  theatrical 
trust,  but  the  Jews  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him ; 
that's  why  he's  always  burning  up  the  syndicate.  He 
lies  when  he  says  that  he's  against  the  combination  be- 
cause he  wants  to  protect  the  actor.  But  they  would 
see;  the  profession  wouldn't  stand  such  a  blackmailer 
much  longer;  they  would  see,  too,  that  they  could  get 
a  good  engagement  through  The  Mimic  World. 

"I  believe  that  man  will  get  us  something,"  said 
Rebecca,  as  they  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  Redburn 
agency. 

In  the  airy  sweep  of  an  upper  square  they  found 
the  intermediary  between  worker  and  managements. 
He  filled  every  possible  want  of  managers;  furnished 
all  grades  of  histrionic  talent;  had  translators  of  plays 
from  the  French  and  German  and  from  the  Spanish; 
provided  original  dramas;  had  the  addresses  of  stage 
managers,  carpenters  and  an  army  of  supernumeraries. 
Redburn  had  one  assistant  in  his  bare  and  exiguous 
office— a  thin,  faded  typewriter  with  pale,  sad  blue 
eyes.  He  took  their  names  and  promised  that  they 
should  soon  hear  from  him.  The  Dowling  Agency, 
further  down  in  a  more  commercial  square,  was  a  con- 
trastingly bustling  place.  The  winding  suite  of  rooms 
was  noisy  with  the  rattle  of  tyewriters,  with  the  talk 
of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  theatrical  people.  Laura 
and  Rebecca  were  accorded  only  a  few  minutes.  A 
busy  woman  secretary  interrogated  them  briskly,  as- 
sured them  they  shortly  would  be  sent  for  and  wished 
them  good  day. 

"Now,  where?"  asked  the  Jewess  when  the  ele- 
vator had  descended  to  the  ground  floor.  "Back  to 
our  room?" 

The  question  at  first  seemed  incomprehensible  to 


126  THE  CITY  OF  THE  EIALTO. 

Laura,  who,  being  filled  with  the  fervid  desire  to  see 
New  York  in  all  its  aspects  and  all  at  once,  supposed 
that  her  companion  shared  the  same  prediliction,  for- 
getting that  the  Jewess  was  a  cosmopolitan  who  had 
seen  and  lived  in  many  cities. 

"Back  to  our  room?"  echoed  Laura  in  astonish- 
ment. You  forget  that  this  is  the  first  time  I  've  been  in 
New  York.  I  want  to  see  the  city." 

"And  you  forget,  my  dear,  that  we  are  nearly 
broke." 

Laura  had  not  thought  of  that.  The  spell  of  the  new 
conditions  had  banished  all  thoughts  of  pecuniary  ne- 
cessities. Yet  it  seemed  a  cruel  deprivation  to  be  so 
near  a  long-cherished  wish— that  of  seeing  the  ocean 
— and  not  attempt  to  gratify  it. 

"But  I  should  like  to  see  the  Bay,  Becky.  Can't 
we  get  there  by  a  street  car?" 

Rebecca  lifted  her  hand  in  signal  to  the  motorman 
to  halt.  "This  car  goes  to  the  Battery,  where  you  can 
see  the  Bay.  Some  other  time— when  we  have  a  job 
—we'll  pass  the  Hook  or  go  to  Manhattan." 

They  had  been  in  the  car  two  minutes  when  Rebecca 
pointed  to  a  low  square  building  that  was  almost  ob- 
scured by  the  mass  of  new  edifices.  "That  was  A. 
T.  Stewart's  store." 

Broadway  was  now  narrower,  the  structures  higher, 
the  men  more  numerous  and  busier,  the  women  fewer; 
retail  stores  gave  way  to  huge  wholesale  establishments 
whose  signs  announced  proprietorship  in  German  names 
of  oriental  floweriness.  "These  are  my  people,"  re- 
marked Rebecca  with  mock  pride.  Most  of  them  came 
over  as  peddlers ;  now  they  own  the  town.  The  Jew  is 
irrepressible;  he's  eternal— eternally  getting  the  best 
of  it  except  when  the  Jew  is  a  Jewess  and  the  Jewess 
an  actress,  and  then  it's  a  case  of  knowing  where  you 
get  your  next  meal  after  you've  had  it." 

Laura  but  half  heard.  Her  senses  were  subject  to 
the  din  and  movement  of  a  square  in  which  a  gray  and 
ancient  looking  piece  of  architecture  was  set.  "City 
Hall,"  Rebecca  explained,  "and  that  old  little  build- 
ing to  the  right,  which  looks  like  a  block  of  gray  gran- 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  RIALTO.  127 

ite,  is  the  once  famous  Astor  House,  the  grandparent 
of  the  Waldorf-Astoria;  it  still  is  popular  with  people 
who  believe  the  country  was  at  its  best  half  a  century 
ago." 

The  tramway  now  seemed  to  have  plunged  into  a 
canyon,  so  narrow  appeared  the  street  and  so  high  were 
the  buildings— twelve,  sixteen,  twenty  and  more  stories 
—making  a  tortuous  and  torturing  sky  line. 

"Why,  what's  this?" 

The  interrogation  was  drawn  by  the  sight  of  a 
strip  of  street  filled  with  men  and  boys  dashing  in 
every  direction.  They  were  all  somber  and  desperately 
preoccupied. 

"Wall  Street,"  answered  Rebecca,  laconically. 
' '  Turn  this  way  quick. ' '  Laura  saw  amid  worn  and  de- 
caying tombstones  a  dark  solemn  church  whose  grace- 
fully thinning  spire  was  a  deliverance  from  the  archi- 
tectural monstrosities  surrounding  it.  The  sacrilegious 
incongruity  of  this  reminiscence  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury set  in  the  seething  commercialism  of  the  twentieth 
startled  Laura,  as  if  she  had  seen  an  angel  with  uplifted 
finger  at  the  head  of  the  financial  thoroughfare. 

"Trinity  Church,"  Rebecca  interpreted.  "I've 
never  been  able  to  tell  whether  it  is  blessing  or  cursing 
Wall  Street." 

From  here  the  car  descended  an  easy  incline  into 
a  park-like  square,  bordered  at  the  further  end  by 
mildly  agitated  pale  green  waters,  which  made  a 
roughly  round  circle  within  the  serrated  shores. 

"So  this  is  the  sea,"  mumured  Laura,  her  emotions 
moved  by  the  spectacle— the  ships  at  anchor;  the  varie- 
gated craft  coming  and  going;  among  them  scowling, 
huge-mouthed  ferries  and  those  gamins  of  the  river  and 
the  bay,  the  dirty,  impudent  tugs. 

"Not  the  sea,  exactly;  rather  a  nook  of  the  sea. 
The  ocean  comes  out  there  at  our  left,  between  the 
break  in  that  long  strip.  Some  day,  when  you've  made 
a  big  hit,  you'll  be  able  to  cross  it  in  swell  style— go 
to  Paris  for  your  gowns." 

"You'll  be  there  before  me,"  rejoined  Laura  in 
that  low,  self-communicative  tone  which  connotes  con- 


128  THE   CITY  OF  THE  RIALTO. 

viction.  "And  who  are  these?"  she  asked  with  wide 
transition,  meaning  the  every  variety  of  laborer  loung- 
ing with  hebetated  sullenness  on  the  rude  benches  of 
the  common. 

"Men  who  want  to  work  but  cannot  find  employ- 
ment; men  so  long  out  of  work  that  they  despair  of 
finding  it  and  have  degenerated  into  tramps ;  men  who 
cannot  work,  who  are  sick  or  disabled,  and  pickpock- 
ets, thieves  and  hoodlums." 

A  few  old  women,  wretchedly  clad,  were  inter- 
spersed among  the  male  outcasts,  and  the  sight  of  them 
made  Laura  more  miserable  than  the  creatures  once 
men,  but  now  dissolved  by  idleness,  sodden  with  drink, 
steeped  in  vice,  eaten  up  by  every  social  and  physical 
malady.  "Come,  let  us  go  back,"  she  pleaded.  "This 
makes  me  miserable." 

In  the  return  ride  Laura  thought  the  material  and 
psychological  aspects  of  Broadway  exhaustless. 
Though  from  end  to  end  the  American  was  preponder- 
ant, it  was  a  street  of  nations ;  a  thoroughfare  genuinely 
cosmopolitan,  for  every  race  was  represented.  With 
her  mind  dazzled  by  these  kaleidoscopic  views  she 
ascended  the  steps  of  Mrs.  Quincy's.  When  she  was 
about  to  open  the  door  Clarence  Protony  stepped  out. 

He  bowed  ceremoniously,  she  distantly,  Rosenau 
conventionally.  But  it  was  all  surface  play.  Laura 
could  see  that  he  was  mentally  staggered;  she  felt 
that  the  gratification  of  getting  an  unexpectedly  prompt 
cue  for  retaliation  must  have  been  mirrored  upon  her 
countenance  and  so  it  was,  although  Protony  was  too 
nonplussed  to  notice  it.  Even  Rosenau 's  conventional 
nod  was  assumed— she  was  almost  as  surprised  as 
Laura  and  immediately  suggested  that  they  find  a 
room  elsewhere.  She  feared  his  proximity  would  dis- 
turb Laura,  who  protested.  A  change,  Laura  said,  was 
not  necessary,  for  as  a  vital  entity  he  had  passed  out 
of  her  life. 

She  evinced  no  interest  in  him.  At  first  they  rarely 
met,  he  being  lodged  in  the  further  house.  But  the 
fact  of  her  presence  soon  affected  him.  He  discovered 
that  she  was  still  in  his  nerves.  He  found  himself 


THE   CITY  OF  THE   KIALTO.  129 

watching  for  her  coming  and  going,  unobserved,  as 
he  thought ;  but  she  frequently  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 
eager  face  between  the  curtains  of  his  window.  She 
heard  from  Rebecca,  who  got  it  from  the  roomers, 
that  he  was  making  inquiries  about  her  as  to  what  she 
was  doing  and  what  her  prospects  were  for  getting  an 
engagement.  One  day,  when  his  nerves  refused  to  be 
controlled,  he  made  a  confidant  of  Mrs.  Quincy— told 
her  all;  how  he  had  met  Laura,  what  she  had  been  to 
him.  Women,  however  old,  are  said  to  be  responsive 
to  confidences  of  the  heart.  She  singled  out  Laura  for 
specific  attention  and  soon  retailed  small  things  about 
her  to  Protony,  who  was  told  where  she  had  been,  who 
in  the  world  of  theatres  she  had  met ;  was  informed  of 
her  hopes,  her  expectations  of  an  advantageous  engage- 
ment. One  evening— about  a  fortnight  after  he  had 
confided  in  Mrs.  Quincy— she  told  him  in  an  undertone 
and  with  a  contraction  of  concern  about  the  eyes,  for 
she  clearly  feared  the  effect  of  the  news  upon  him,  that 
Laura  and  Rebecca  had  engaged  to  join  Roland  Mar- 
shall's Company  the  next  day  at  Washington. 

This  was  true.  The  Dowling  Agency  had  sent  a 
messenger  to  the  house  that  morning  asking  the  ladies 
to  hurry  to  the  office,  where  they  heard  that  Mr.  Mar- 
shall had  wired  from  the  National  Capital  for  a  general 
utility  and  for  a  leading  lady.  "Mrs.  Marshall,"  the 
agent  explained,  "has  been  doing  the  lead,  but  I  under- 
stand she  is  soon  to  play  the  part  of  a  mother  in  a  real- 
istic manner.  Clara  Boon  has  been  doing  the  odd  jobs 
for  Marshall,  but  he's  peppery  and  he's  hard  to  please, 
so  the  inevitable  row  occurred.  He  wants  two  young 
women  who  don't  know  it  all;  who  are  plastic;  who 
can  fit  themselves  to  his  ideas,  and  I  guess  you'll  answer 
his  purpose.  Don't  oppose  him  in  any  way  and  remem- 
ber that  he's  eccentric." 

They  found  him  extremely  eccentric  and  Laura 
thought,  after  the  first  rehearsal,  that  his  eccentricity 
proceeded  chiefly  from  his  affectation  of  eccentricity. 
Physically  there  was  nothing  eccentric  about  him;  a 
strong,  rubicund  man,  inclined  to  be  stocky,  charged 
with  exhaustless  vitality  and  fine  energy.  He  was 


130  THE   CITY  OF  THE  RIALTO. 

prompt  at  the  rehearsals  of  "A  Romance  of  Madrid," 
in  which  he  had  made  a  reputation  by  lifting  the  sub- 
ordinate role  of  an  intriguing,  dissolute  Senator  to 
that  of  a  protagonist.  When  introduced  by  his  business 
manager,  he  bowed  to  Laura  and  Rebecca  carelessly, 
without  offering  his  hand,  leisurely  walked  up  to  the 
footlights  and  addressed  the  orchestra  leader:  "Guten 
Tag,  Herr  Becker;  hoffentlich  geht  die  'Don  Juan' 
Ouvertuere  besser  heute  Abend;  es  war  ganz  verfuschf 
gestern"  Then  turning  to  the  bassonist,  who  was  either 
a  Swiss  or  a  Frenchman:  "Bon  jour,  monsieur  le  Con- 
trebassiste;  il  fait  beau  temps."  This  caused  an  electric 
commotion  among  the  musicians.  They  smiled  ecstat- 
ically; lifted  their  heads  in  unison  and  to  the  same 
angle ;  all  seemed  supremely  happy  to  be  noticed  by  the 
great  actor  whose  linguistic  powers  made  him  obvi- 
ously self-satisfied— until  he  turned  to  go  up  stage, 
when  he  saw,  flushed  of  face  and  breathing  hard  from 
extreme  haste,  a  belated  member  of  the  company. 
Roland  Marshall's  face  became  shaded.  He  read- 
justed his  monocle,  riveted  his  eyes  upon  the  panting 
actor,  then  deliberately  strode  up  to  him.  After  scrut- 
inizing the  confused  member  from  head  to  foot  and 
back  again,  Marshall  broke  the  awed  silence  with: 
' '  Are-you-a-member-of-this-company  ? ' ' 

The  words  were  drawled  in  distinct  insolence.  The 
young  man's  flush  and  confusion  deepened  under 
the  supercilious  affront.  He  answered  in  a  barely  audi- 
ble tone:  "Yes,  sir,  I  am  a  member  of  your  company, 
Mr.  Marshall." 

The  humble  manner  and  contrite  air,  instead  of 
appeasing  the  great  actor,  seemingly  were  interpreted 
as  an  invitation  to  stamp  further  humiliation  upon  the 
already  humiliated.  The  great  actor  drew  back  a  step 
or  two  and  surveyed  his  subject  anew,  this  time  with 
an  assumption  of  insolent  curiosity.  A  prolonged  pause 
and  then,  drawlingly,  the  better  to  stress  the  insult: 

"Awh-awh-awh;  you-you  a  member;  awh-awh-in- 
deed.  I  should  not  have  thought  it."  Turning  to 
the  other  members,  who  stood  in  stilted  array  in  the 
background:  "I  am  not  sure,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  HIALTO.  131 

but  I  am  emboldened  to  venture  that  we  now  have  this 
gentleman 's  permission  to  proceed  with  the  rehearsal. ' ' 

That  gentleman  was  the  lightning  rod  upon  which 
all  of  Marshall's  irascibility  was  deflected  through- 
out the  repetition.  Marshall  offered  no  suggestion  to 
Laura,  who  played  a  premiere  danseuse,  or  to  Rebecca, 
who  did  a  subordinate  dancer;  he  scarcely  noticed  the 
new  acquisitions.  But  he  had  incessant  sneers  and 
fleers  for  the  unfortunate  creature  who  had  come  late 
and  who  was  become  demoralized  under  the  derisive 
nagging.  "I  say— what's  your  name — have  you  never 
been  at  a  smart  dinner?  You  have?  Well,  I'm  aston- 
ished. One  would  not  have  thought  it."  Or:  "What 
were  you  before  you  tried  to  become  an  actor  ?  What  ? 
You  were  just  from  college?  Well!  Well!  I  should 
have  guessed  a  cigar  clerk." 

Laura's  mounting  indignation  at  the  man  for  his 
currish  conduct  was  transformed  into  spell-bound  ad- 
miration near  the  end  of  the  rehearsal  when  he  essayed 
the  death  by  paralysis  of  the  vice-ridden  viveur.  She 
had  read  and  heard  much  of  the  scene,  but  was  hardly 
prepared  for  its  griping  intensity.  It  was  a  banquet 
in  the  sumptuous  apartment  of  the  dissolute  Spanish 
nobleman.  The  fete  was  set  for  midnight  to  meet  the 
convenience  of  the  ballerini  who  had  been  invited. 
The  guests  were  of  all  ages  but  of  two  ranks  only; 
the  men  of  nobility,  the  women  of  the  kind  that  sap 
the  nobility— the  demi-mondaines  and  actresses.  A 
toast  had  been  drunk  to  Clara,  to  Rosa,  to  Anita,  to 
Perdita;  the  diners  were  warming  to  the  glow  of  the 
festivity  when  a  tall  young  man  with  a  huge  bouton- 
niere,  insolent  grin  and  tone  proposed:  "Now  one  to 
our  host,  who  must  respond  with  a  speech."  "To  our 
host,  to  old  Juanny."  The  table  shook  under  the 
thump  of  hands ;  knives  rattled  against  plates ;  glasses 
clinked.  The  used-up  rake  lifted  himself  slowly  from  his 
chair,  glass  in  hand.  In  a  voice  cracked  by  false  think- 
ing and  living  he  spoke  sentiments  marvelously  similar 
to  those  expressed  by  Phelon  at  the  midnight  dinner 
given  at  Tom  Chandler's.  The  words  "women,  money, 
materialism"  were  recurrent ;  but  he  stopped  in  the  mid- 


132  THE   CITY  OF  THE  RIALTO. 

die  of  a  sentence.  He  had  again  uttered  the  word 
"materialism."  He  seemed  unable  to  proceed.  The  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth  were  nervously  drawn,  his  hands 
quivered.  He  made  another  effort— "materialism— 
materialism — materialism—  "  his  face  twitched  convuls- 
ively; his  body  swayed,  then  suddenly  turned  rigid, 
wavered  a  moment  and  fell  forward  on  the  table.  With 
the  crash  of  the  crockery  were  mingled  feminine 
screams,  cries  of  alarm  from  the  men ;  while  the  orches- 
tra, hidden  in  the  foliaged  balcony,  continued  to  pour 
forth  the  sensuous  strains  of  a  Strauss  waltz.  One  of 
the  guests,  a  physician,  lifted  the  black  clothed  body 
with  its  white,  drawn  face  from  the  table  and  placed 
it  on  the  floor.  Solemnly  he  raised  his  hand  and  said : 
' '  Stop  the  music.  The  Senator  is  dead ! ' ' 

The  effect  of  Marshall's  illustration  of  death  was 
so  abiding  that  Laura  and  Rebecca  had  no  sense  for  the 
splendid  avenue  in  which  they  found  themselves  after 
the  rehearsal.  Not  until  the  hectic  applause  of  the 
night  audience  was  dispelled  by  eight  hours  of  perfect 
repose  did  Laura  have  eyes  for  the  white  and  wide 
spread  capital  which  has  its  back  turned  upon  the  town 
in  general  and  the  White  House  in  particular;  for  the 
glitteringly  conspicuous  library;  for  the  foreign  look- 
ing men,  diplomatists,  whose  very  walk  bespoke  some- 
thing alien  and  who  seemed  to  regard  everything 
American  with  either  disinterested  cheerfulness  or 
with  half-amused  interest ;  for  the  women  who  appeared 
steeped  in  officiality— their  countenances  high-chinned 
in  the  consciousness  of  possessed  rank  or  wistfully 
drawn  in  the  desire  to  gain  something  higher  for  a  hus- 
band, a  father,  a  brother  or  a  son.  Laura  had  a  feel- 
ing that  it  was  a  place  for  those  who  strive  for  place, 
an  outwardly  calm  city  which  inwardly  suggested  in- 
sincerity, uncertainty,  unceasing  apprehension;  anx- 
iety of  those  who  fear  for  their  positions,  of  those  who 
want  the  positions— even  social— of  others;  a  city 
which  covertly  seethed  with  plans,  schemes,  intrigues- 
like  an  Egyptian  pitcher  of  tamed  vipers,  each  strug- 
gling to  get  its  head  above  the  others. 

Laura's  objective  observations  precluded  her  from 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  BIALTO.  133 

observing  subjectively  until  after  the  second  perform- 
ance, which  was  given  to  a  much  smaller  house  than 
the  first  and  which  exasperated  Marshall  to  the  remark, 
just  before  the  curtain  rose:  "I  shall  not  permit  my 
manager  to  make  another  engagement  here.  These  peo- 
ple care  nothing  for  art.  They  are  all  for  social  show, 
for  jobs  and  for  emoluments."  She  noticed  that  Wash- 
ington, in  contrast  to  other  cities,  was  coolly  incurious 
to  the  people  of  the  theatre.  Rebecca,  as  usual,  was 
ready  with  an  uncharitable  explanation.  She  explained 
the  difference  on  professional  grounds.  Washington 
was  the  national  theatre,  peopled  with  the  nation's  fa- 
vorites—politicians and  statesmen  whose  every  act  was 
applauded  or  hissed  by  an  audience  of  millions.  Wash- 
ingtonians  were  always  in  the  limelight's  glare,  where 
there  was  no  room  for  an  outsider. 

None  was  so  mortified  as  Marshall  himself,  as  he 
drove  down  the  avenue  from  the  hotel  to  his  private 
car  the  morning  following  the  last  night  of  the  engage- 
ment. Entirely  unnoticed,  he  reached  the  station  in 
sullen  mortification.  In  the  presence  of  the  company  he 
instructed  his  manager  to  "never  again  make  a  date  in 
this  town.  They  are  too  busy  showing  off  to  come  near 
me."  Then  Mrs.  Marshall— who  was  assisted  gently — 
a  valet,  a  messenger  and  two  servants  entered  a  private 
coach.  The  troupe  got  in  a  public  car  directly  ahead. 
Laura  wondered  why  the  porter  stood  guard  at  the 
door  of  the  private  car;  Rebecca  was  prompt  with  a 
devination : 

"He  wants  to  be  guarded  against  the  common  herd 
in  this  wagon." 

"You've  guessed  it,"  supplemented  the  messenger 
boy,  a  strip  of  a  lad  with  dancing  brown  eyes.  "Mr. 
Marshall  is  very  particular  about  the  kind  of  people  he 
meets  away  from  the  theatre.  If  ever  you  want  to  see 
him  you  must  send  him  a  note  and  ask  if  you  may  have 
so  and  so  much  of  his  time.  He  won't  associate  with  his 
people,  but  he's  always  making  social  rules  for  them. 
He  won't  allow  the  men  to  go  into  saloons.  He  says 
that  if  they  want  to  drink  they  can  send  for  what  they 
want  from  their  apartments.  He  thinks  saloons  are  vul- 


134  THE   CITY   OF  THE   EIALTO. 

gar  places.  He  thinks  its  vulgar,  too,  for  a  lady  to  go 
about  alone,  so  he's  made  a  rule  that  no  woman  of  his 
company  must  be  seen  without  an  escort.  Another 
rule—" 

The  guard  had  crossed  the  vestibule  and  interrupt- 
ing with:  "Joe,  you're  wanted."  The  lad  leapt  from 
his  seat  and  in  a  bolt  was  in  the  private  car.  He  re-ap- 
peared almost  instantly  with  the  command:  "Miss 
Darnby,  Mr.  Mars-hall  wants  to  see  you." 

The  porter  saluted  Laura  ceremoniously,  like  a  sen- 
tinel at  a  general's  tent.  In  a  vision  of  blue  and  gold 
decorations  sat  Marshall  on  an  elevated  seat.  The  dark 
trousers  were  lost  between  the  Chinese  slippers  traced 
delicately  in  white  and  yellow  and  the  Oriental  smok- 
ing jacket  in  black  and  yellow.  Thus,  with  his  round 
head  and  smooth  shaven  face,  he  looked  like  a  high- 
caste  Chinaman  in  the  front  view.  Beside  him,  in  hum- 
ble posture,  was  a  large,  black  bundle  not  relieved  but 
emphasized  by  a  drawn,  pale,  concerned  visage.  Mar- 
shall introduced  the  black  bundle  hurriedly:  "Gladys, 
this  is  Miss  Darnby.  Miss  Darnby,  my  wife.  I  called 
you  in,  Miss  Darnby,  to  go  over  the  supper  scene  in  'A 
Romance  of  Madrid.'  Your  reading  is  not  altogether 
satisfactory.  It  lacks  dash  and  finish.  Clara  is  more 
than  a  premiere  danseuse;  she  is  a  clever,  worldly- 
wise  girl  who  knows  that  a  dissolute  millionaire  is  in- 
fatuated with  her.  You  must  show  more  spirit,  not  of 
a  brazen  but  of  a  self-possessed  sort.  And  then  when 
you  tell  of  the  wreck  in  which  your  former  companion, 
Piquinta,  went  down,  you  are  not  fully  convincing.  You 
see,  Piquinta  loved  life;  she  was  luxurious  and  sensu- 
ous and — here  is  the  subtle  point — she  had  been  your 
rival  before  she  had  decided  to  make  a  tour  of  South 
America.  You  were  rivals,  which,  with  women,  of 
course,  means  enemies.  You  must,  in  your  recital, 
illustrate  the  peculiar  tragedy  of  such  a  creature  going 
down  in  an  awful  storm  in  mid-ocean  and  yet  subtly 
convey  the  terribly  sinful  satisfaction  which  we  all  feel 
— I'm  speaking  frankly,  you  see— when  a  competitor 
disappears,  however  he  may  be  removed.  Now  let  us 
go  over  those  lines." 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  RIALTO.  135 

Laura  began:  "Have  you  heard  the  news?" 
Why—" 

"Stop,"  interrupted  Marshall.  "You  speak  as  if 
you  were  frightened.  You  should  eject  into  your  tone 
something  of  the  sublimial  satisfaction  I  just  men- 
tioned. Try  again,  and  put  the  exclamation  '  Oh ! '  at  the 
beginning.  Now  then,  'Oh,  have  you  heard  the  news?" 
Laura  recommenced.  Marshall's  countenance  turned 
sullen;  but  he  said  nothing,  so  she  continued  to  the 
last  sentence :  "Good  God !  think  of  a  young  and  beau- 
tiful woman  who  loves  life  being  hurled  into  the  mad 
waters  of  the  ocean  on  a  black  and  stormy  wintry  night 
—into  the  freezing  waves,  with  rain  and  snow  coming 
down  and  with  the  crazed  cries  of  men,  women  and 
children  in  your  ears.  Ugh!  Ugh!  May  God  pre- 
serve us!" 

What  was  it  that  came  over  her  as  she  spoke  those 
words?  Her  face  whitened  in  the  ineffable  tremor  that 
seized  her.  In  that  moment  of  psychic  phenomena — 
in  a  moment  of  wondrous  mystery  when  the  portals 
of  the  future  are  opened— she  had  a  premonition  of  that 
awful  tragedy  which— 

"How  well  you  read  the  last  lines,  Miss  Darnby" 
—it  was  Marshall's  voice  which  turned  her  from  Fate's 
vision.  "Why  don't  you  read  the  first  with  the  same 
feeling  and  intelligence?  Let  us  go  back  again.  Step 
to  the  back  of  the  car  and  come  forward  as  though 
you  came  from  the  wings  to  the  banquet  table. 
Now-" 

'Oh!    Have  you  heard  the  news?" 

'No,  no!    That  won't  do  at  all.    Again— go  back." 

'Oh!     Have   you   heard   the   news?" 

'No,  again  go  back." 

'Oh!    Have  you  heard  the  news?" 

'For  heaven's  sake,  Miss  Darnby,  can't  you  put 
some  meaning  into  those  lines?  You  repeat  them 
like  a  frightened  school  girl.  You  know  a  little  Ger- 
man don 't  you  ?  Perhaps  you  know  what  Schadenfreude 
means.  That  is  what  I  tried  to  think  of— Schadenfreude. 
Put  Schadenfreude  in  your  reading.  Now  again!" 

"Oh!  Have  you  heard  the  news?" 


136  THE   CITY  OF  THE   RIALTO. 

Marshall  rose,  his  face  purple,  and  moved  toward 
Laura.  She  drew  back  instinctively,  while  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, who  had  been  silent  to  that  moment,  got  to  her 
feet  in  a  haste  that  caused  her  pain  and  seized  Mar- 
shall's arm.  "Roland"— her  voice  was  gently  suppli- 
cative — come,  be  calm,  be  considerate.  Miss  Darnby 
is  nervous.  She  will  do  better  tomorrow." 

"Tell  her  to  go  away.    She  is  intolerable." 

Laura  hurried  to  the  door  and  in  an  instant  was 
beside  Rebecca,  to  whom  she  told  her  experience. 
"The  man  is  mad,"  was  Rebecca's  comment.  Just  be- 
fore the  train  reached  New  York  the  messenger  boy 
whispered  to  several  members  of  the  company  that  Mar- 
shall had  decided  to  discharge  his  entire  support  and 
engage  new  people. 

"Will  he  do  it?"  Rebecca  asked. 

"That  depends;  he  will  if  he  don't  get  over  his  fit 
before  to-morrow  morning." 

He  had  not  wholly  recovered  from  his  anger  the 
next  day,  for  at  the  rehearsal  he  dismissed  out  of 
hand  three  ballet  girls— including  the  Anita— because 
they  were  in  his  way  as  he  came  en  scene.  Of  Laura 
he  took  no  notice  whatever,  passing  the  reading  of  her 
introductory  lines  without  recognition. 


CHAPTER  XVH. 
AGAIN  THE  INTRUDER. 

That  evening  two  surprises  confronted  Laura  and 
Rebecca.  Their  dressing  room  being  in  the  flies  they 
had  to  cross  the  stage  to  reach  it,  and  in  crossing  they 
found  Carr  going  over  the  final  business  of  Anita. 

"You  here,"  exclaimed  Laura,  involuntarily. 

"Evidently,"  the  ash-blonde  responded  icily,  turn- 
ing her  back. 

But  they  were  in  no  mind  to  discuss  Carr.  It  was 
to  be  their  first  appearance  in  New  York,  and,  however 
obscured  by  the  overwhelming  talent  of  Marshall,  the 
performance  might  mean  much  to  them.  Laura  flung 
herself  into  the  part  of  Clara.  From  first  to  last  she 
threw  off  everything  and  lost  herself  in  the  character. 
Now  and  again  she  heard  a  burst  of  genteel  approval 
which  swelled  into  a  hurricane  at  the  death  of  the  Sena- 
tor. There  were  shouts  of  * '  Marshall ! "  * '  Marshall ! ' ' 
"Marshall!!!"  The  actor  stepped  forward  and  those 
behind  could  hear  his  remarks  to  the  house.  He 
thanked  the  audience  for  its  loud  appreciation  of  him- 
self and  his  co-workers.  He  was  glad  to  know  there 
were  at  least  a  few  Americans  who  approved  of  Ameri- 
can art,  who  did  not  follow  every  theatrical  fad— a 
fad  that  admired  a  French  actress  with  her  hysterical 
method,  that  adored  an  Italian  with  her  neurotic  real- 
ism, that  made  a  lion— social  and  otherwise— of  an 
Englishman  who  had  attained  to  the  lowest  rank  of  a 
rank  nobility  by  sycophancy  incomprehensible  to  a 
free-born  citizen  of  the  United  States.  The  audience 
was  probably  aware  that  he  (Marshall)  had  a  complete 
command  of  several  languages.  He  could,  if  he  wished, 
distinguish  himself  in  France,  in  Germany,  in  Italy  or 


138  AGAIN  THE  INTRUDER. 

in  England;  but  he  preferred  reserving  his  gifts  and 
strength  for  his  countrymen,  who,  he  hoped,  would  ap- 
preciate his  patriotism  and  his  efforts  to  surpass  at 
least  the  English  theatre. 

Amid  thunderous  approval  the  curtain  lazily  de- 
scended. Laura,  who  had  been  down  stage  near  enough 
to  hear  the  speech,  returned  to  her  room,  where  she 
found  Rebecca. 

"I've  found  out  all  about  it— about  Carr,"  ex- 
plained the  Jewess.  "I  made  up  with  her  during  the 
waits.  She's  stopping  at  the  Waldborough,  the  hotel 
Ross  took  in  management  here  a  week  ago.  She  got 
in  the  company  through  Ross,  who  is  a  friend  of  the 
manager,  and  the  manager  is  to  be  at  the  Waldborough 
during  Marshall's  engagement  in  New  York.  I  can't 
understand  why  Ross  goes  out  of  his  way  for  Carr. 
He  never  seemed  to  care  for  her. ' ' 

"Did  she  speak  of  me?"  Laura  asked. 

"No— yes.  She  said  Ross  asked  her  to  inquire 
about  you,  so  she  wanted  to  know  how  you  were  get- 
ting on." 

'Roman's  intermittent  possession  of  the  sixth  sense 
— when  passion  or  affection  concerns  them  directly 
— suggested  to  Laura  why  Ross  had  gone  out  of  his 
way  for  Carr,  who  considering  that  Rosenau  had  taken 
the  conciliatory  step,  bowed  to  Laura  at  the  stage  door. 
Laura  was  about  to  return  the  salutation  when  her  eye 
caught  some  one  entering  Marshall's  carriage.  She 
was  not  trustful  of  her  view  until  he  looked  from 
the  window;  the  some  one  was  Protony.  The  super- 
cilious expression  in  those  eyes  did  not  disconcert  Re- 
becca as  it  did  Laura.  The  little  brunette  made  sev- 
eral calm  conjectures.  Perhaps  Protony  had  been  en- 
gaged to  stage  a  new  play  or  to  revise  an  old  one  or  to 
dramatize  an  idea  of  Marshall's. 

One  of  Rebecca's  surmises  proved  approximately 
correct.  Mrs.  Quincy  told  them  that  Protony  had 
packed  and  gone  to  the  Waldborough  that  morning  at 
the  invitation  of  Roland  Marshall,  with  whom  he  would 
collaborate  in  a  play.  The  subject,  she  understood, 
was  the  French  Revolution,  with  Robespierre  as  the 


AGAIN  THE  INTRUDER  139 

central  figure.  Rebecca  scented  danger.  She  hinted 
to  Laura  it  were  best  to  be  at  least  on  friendly  terms 
with  Protony,  who  would  necessarily  have  confidential 
relations  with  Marshall.  Interpreting  Laura's  silence 
as  consent  she  offered  herself  as  an  intermediary. 
Laura  interrupted  her  sharply.  No,  no  and  evermore 
no!  She  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  He  was 
small,  mean,  inconceivably  selfish,  grossly  jealous.  She 
had  found  him  wanting  at  the  most  crucial  time  of  her 
life.  He  had  shown  cowardice  and  weakness  in  every 
critical  moment.  Perhaps  he  had  talent  for  stagecraft, 
but  she  knew  that  at  bottom  his  extreme  selfishness  re- 
pelled everybody,  especially  a  woman  upon  close  ac- 
quaintance. No  matter  what  his  influence  with  Marshall, 
she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  Rosenau  saw  it 
were  futile  to  dissuade  Laura  from  her  determination, 
so  bade  her  good  night.  But  whilst  disrobing  she 
saw  a  letter  on  the  chiffonier  addressed  to  her.  It  was 
an  invitation  from  Ross  to  come  to  the  Waldborough. 
Though  written  to  her,  Rosenau  divined  that  it  was 
intended  for  Laura,  particularly  as  "This  includes  Miss 
Darnby.  There  will  be  no  trouble  about  rates— they '11 
be  low  enough  to  meet  your  income." 

"Don't  put  out  the  lights.     I  have  something  for 
you.    Here. ' '    The  paper  was  handed  Laura,  who,  after 
a  hurried  perusal,  returned  it  without  comment. 
' '  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  ? ' ' 
"I  have  nothing  to  say.      Good  night." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

FOOTLTGHT  FLASHES- AND  DASHES. 

Like  all  the  lodgers  of  Mrs.  Quincy's,  Laura  and 
Rebecca  had  asked  that  the  newspapers  be  sent  to  their 
rooms  early  every  Tuesday  morning.  Both  were  burn- 
ing to  read  what  the  New  York  critics  would  write  of 
their  first  appearance.  This  was  Rebecca's  thought  on 
awakening.  She  jumped  to  the  floor,  unlocked  the  door 
and  feverishly  grasped  a  bundle  of  journals.  Her  move- 
ment aroused  Laura,  who  demanded  half  of  them.  The 
Tribunal  congratulated  Mr.  Marshall  on  his  sumptuous 
revival  of  a  genuine  drama  at  a  time  when  there  was 
a  dangerous  tendency  to  degrade  the  theatre  with 
so-called  realistic  plays.  Mr.  Marshall's  Senator  had 
deepened  in  conviction  and  broadened  in  authority— it 
would  endure  as  one  of  the  great  creations  of  the 
American  stage.  The  audience  was  affected  to  copi- 
ous tears  in  the  second  act  and  at  the  death  scene  was 
absolutely  transfixed.  There  were  two  noteworthy 
changes  in  the  cast.  A  western  lady,  a  Miss  Darnby, 
essayed  Clara  unimpressively;  her  enunciation  was  dis- 
tinctly of  the  West;  her  gestures  far  from  rounded. 
She  was  young,  however,  and  in  time  might  assume 
some  of  the  graces  so  essential  to  refined  theatre-goers. 
Anita,  an  episodical  role,  was  convincingly  enacted  by 
a  Miss  Rosenau. 

The  Current  congratulated  Mr.  Marshall  on  the  re- 
vival of  the  Spanish  play.  Mr.  Marshall's  Senator  was 
so  well-known  that  it  were  redundant  to  comment  on 
his  work.  Clara  was  entrusted  to  a  Western  lady,  a 
Miss  Laura  Darnby,  who  will  doubtless  conceive  the 
role  in  all  its  possibilities  with  continued  interpreta- 
tion. Rosenau  was  not  mentioned. 

(140) 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  141 

The  Diary  wondered  that  with  so  many  new  and 
popular  novels  yet  undramatized  Mr.  Marshall  should 
revert  to  his  success  of  a  past  decade.  The  changes 
in  the  personnel  of  his  company  were  not  advantageous 
to  the  art  of  acting  as  it  is  understood  in  New  York. 

The  Courier  thought  Mr.  Marshall's  career  coursed 
more  and  more  toward  garish  contradictions.  None 
was  more  progressive  in  the  actor's  art;  none  more 
reactionary  in  the  literature  of  the  stage.  With  his 
matchless  abilities,  Mr.  Marshall  could  give  a  really 
intellectual  reading  of  Sudermann  and  Hauptmann,  of 
Ibsen  and  Shaw;  instead,  he  resorted  to  the  tattered 
stock  of  romantic  contrivances  fit  only  for  the  past  gen- 
eration. His  personal  work  was,  of  course,  of  super- 
lative excellence  and  in  a  corresponding  respect  he 
displayed  excellent  judgment  in  the  selection  of  his 
associates.  Miss  Darmby,  for  instance,  revealed  an 
original  talent  for  modernity,  absolutely  free  from  the 
annoying  conventions  of  the  routinists  of  the  boards. 
There  were  amendable  crudities  and  these  were  quite 
forgotten  in  the  high  intelligence  and  fresh  conception 
exhibited.  Almost  the  same  eulogy  might  be  written 
of  Miss  Rosenau,  albeit  there  was  a  marked  difference 
in  the  talents  of  the  ladies.  Physically  and  tempera- 
mentally she  was  the  Spanish  dancer,  Anita. 

The  Comet  did  not  deem  it  worth  while  to  resus- 
citate a  well-buried  play  for  the  purpose  of  introducing 
a  pair  of  Western  actresses  of  mediocre  ability— for 
surely  Roland  Marshall  did  not  exhume  "A  Romance  of 
Madrid"  to  astonish  the  Metropolis  with  his  Senator, 
which  was  as  over-familiar  as  Jefferson's  "Rip." 

The  Sphere  thought  two  prairie  ladies  with  harsh 
accents  a  light  penance  to  impose  for  the  high  privilege 
of  again  seeing  Roland  Marshall  as  the  Spanish  Sen- 
ator. 

"Does  that  exhaust  the  supply?"  queried  Laura 
scornfully. 

' '  Oh,  no ;  we  'have  to  run  the  gantlet  of  the  evening 
papers  besides  the  weekly  periodicals." 

"The  main  objection  to  us  seems  to  be  that  we  had 


142  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

the  bad  taste  not  to  be  born  somewhere  east  of  Pitts- 
burg." 

"Yes;  we  have  no  right  to  exist  on  the  stage  be- 
cause we  are  too  long  with  our  r's  and  too  short  with 
our  a's." 

"Well,  we  can  soon  remedy  that;  it  will  be  easy  to 
change  our  pronunciation  to  suit  the  ears  of  Broad- 
way. ' ' 

"And  after  we  have  done  that  it  will  be  easy  to 
change  our  birthplace." 

"Certainly;  for  public  purposes  it's  just  as  easy 
to  be  born  in  Boston  or  New  York  as  in  a  small  town 
near  Kansas  City.  And,  by  the  way,  Becky,  where 
did  you  come  from?  You've  never  told  me." 

"You  could  never  guess.  I  was  born  in  a  village 
called  Kaunitz,  near  Prague  in  Bohemia." 

"Bohemia?    Why  where  is — " 

"Austria,  Europe.  I  came  over  with  my  parents 
when  I  was  seven." 

"Where  are  they— your  father  and  mother?" 

"Dead.  Died  in  Chicago.  Unlike  most  Jews,  my 
father  left  nothing— not  even  an  insurance  policy." 

"He  left  you  plenty  of  brains." 

"Of  what  good  are  brains  to  a  woman,  especially 
to  an  actress?  They  are  an  impediment.  I  already 
know  enough  of  the  art— I  mean  of  the  profession— 
to  know  that  brains  lead  you  into  too  many  mistakes. 
Instinct  and  intuition  are  far  better  in  this  business 
than  intellect.  Best  of  all  is  beauty ;  a  superb  sensuous 
sort  of  beauty.  A  stunning,  commanding  figure  with 
superb  hips  and  magnificent  arms  and  a  cool  contralto 
voice.  A  few  fine  gowns  will  do  the  rest.  Ah  (sigh- 
ing), I  have  none  of  these  things.  All  I  have  are  a 
terribly  big  ambition  and  some  intelligence.  You  can't 
catch  the  public  with  such  negative  qualities— you 
couldn't,  were  you  so  disposed,  catch  even  one  man  of 
the  public  worth  the  catching." 

"You  horrible  little  pessimist"— Laura  laughed 
lightly  as  she  leapt  from  the  bed  to  the  floor— "You'll 
leave  us  all  behind.  Some  day  we'll  look  up  from  the 
lower  rung  and  find  you  at  the  top." 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  143 

"On  the  top  of  a  ridiculously  big  wreck,  you 
mean." 

Rebecca's  cynical  prophecy  was  fulfilled  with  un- 
expected celerity.  The  portent  was  a  circular  notifi- 
cation (typewritten)  from  Marshall  requesting  mem- 
bers of  the  company  to  carefully  study  Carlyle's 
"French  Revolution".  This  notice  eame  with  the 
evening  papers,  so  that  little  thought  was  given  at 
the  time  to  the  order.  Among  the  criticisms  of  the 
performance  The  Mail  supposed  it  must  be  gratifying 
to  those  who  set  the  player  above  the  play  to  be 
favored  with  Mr.  Marshall's  exhibition  of  virtuosity; 
otherwise  the  revival  of  "A  Romance  of  Madrid"  had 
no  meaning  except  that  it  introduced  two  potentially 
good  actresses  in  Miss  Darnby  and  Miss  Rosenau. 

The  Express  rejoiced  that  Marshall  had  returned 
to  the  muttons  of  the  drama.  "A  Romance  of  Madrid" 
was  a  play  in  the  genuine  and  not  in  the  current  ac- 
ceptance of  the  term.  It  was  regrettable,  however, 
that  the  personnel  of  the  company  had  not  changed 
for  the  better.  A  Miss  Darnby  and  a  Miss  Rosenau 
were  acquisitions  that  did  not  demonstrate  their  desira- 
bility last  evening. 

The  Financial  Advertiser  heard  that  a  new  play  was 
preparing  for  Mr.  Marshall.  For  the  sake  of  Mr. 
Marshall's  army  of  admirers  and  for  the  furtherance 
of  the  American  theatre  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  the 
prospective  piece  would  be  something  more  than  a  con- 
trivance for  the  display  of  Mr.  Marshall's  mechanical 
mastery  of  the  actor's  art.  Mr.  Marshall's  versatil- 
ity was  unusual;  his  mimicry  wonderful,  his  knowl- 
edge of  life  as  it  is  understood  in  the  theatre  complete. 
But  to  one  who  could  see  men  better  than  pictures, 
who  loved  art  for  humanity's  sake  quite  as  well  as  for 
art's  sake,  who  caught  a  glimpse  of  things  that  were 
below  the  superficialities,  Mr.  Marshall's  power  was 
irresistible.  There  was  a  genuine  gift  in  Miss  Darnby, 
whose  personality  drew  the  audience  toward  her. 
Miss  Rosenau 's  temperamental  qualities  would  in  time 
make  her  work  distinctive.  Nature  intended  her  for 


144  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

the  portrayal  of  dark  Southern  women  of  intense  tem- 
perament. 

The  Planet  dismissed  the  production  in  a  colorless, 
non-committal  paragraph.  Marshall  only  was  men- 
tioned. 

The  Transcript  approved  of  the  play,  of  Marshall 
and  of  Miss  Darnby  in  brief  conventionality. 

The  Daily  Intelligence  said  the  audience  was  pleased 
with  everything  and  everybody. 

"Are  we  a  success  or  are  we  a  failure?"  asked 
Laura  musingly  as  the  last  paper  slipped  from  her 
hand. 

'We  are  both  according  to  what  we  have  just 
read.  I  hope  we  can  make  it  decisive— make  it  de- 
cisively successful  in  "Robespierre". 

"I  wonder  what  parts  we'll  have?" 

"That's  easy.  You'll  be  asked  to  play  Marie  An- 
toinette and  I'll  be  told  to  be  a  crazy  old  hag,  the 
leader  of  the  mob  of  red,  ragged  and  screaming  female 
demons. ' ' 

The  next  day  a  circular  note,  this  time  signed 
by  Clarence  Protony,  informed  Miss  Darnby  that  proba- 
bly she  would  be  asked  to  study  Marie  Antoinette  and 
Miss  Rosenau  Germanie  Boucheron,  a  proletariate.  For 
a  week  they  read  Carlyle  assiduously.  Laura  had 
caught  in  her  seminary  days  the  oddities,  as  they  are 
called,  of  the  master;  her  re-reading  was  instructive 
and  not  difficult.  She  now  appreciated  the  grandeur 
of  the  style,  the  sustained  brilliancy  of  the  diction.  For 
a  day  or  two  Rebecca  was  exasperated.  She  could  not 
grasp  the  elemental  originality  of  this  spiritual  mind; 
— could  not  accustom  herself  to  the  mode  of  presenta- 
tion of  these  grandly  moral  ideas.  Several  times  she 
flung  the  book  to  the  further  end  of  the  room,  resolved 
to  replace  it  with  Guizot's  history,  or  Thier's  or  Mich- 
elet's;  but  Laura  persuaded  her  to  persevere;  she 
would  surely  be  rewarded  for  this  seemingly  difficult 
introduction  to  the  Sage. 

One  morning  as  Rebecca  took  up  the  volume  and 
for  the  first  time  was  unconscious  of  any  singularity 
of  rhetoric,  a  circular  similar  in  form  to  the  former 


FOOTLIQHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  145 

notification  was  delivered  by  the  letter  carrier. 
Through  his  secretary  Mr.  Marshall  informed  them 
that  "Robespierre"  was  abandoned  in  favor  of  pro- 
ducing a  dramatization  of  Hawthorne's  "Scarlet  Let- 
ter." The  members  of  Mr.  Marshall's  company  would 
please  study  tha-t  work  at  once.  An  hour  later  Re- 
becca received  a  note  from  Protony  requesting  permis- 
sion to  call.  She  comprehended  that  the  note  was 
intended  for  Laura,  who  when  she  heard  of  the  indi- 
rect advances  for  a  reconciliation  flatly  declined.  He 
had  passed  out  of  her  life,  she  declared,  and  the  bare 
possibility  of  a  recurrence  of  the  mental  anguish  ex- 
perienced with  Protony  steeled  the  purpose  not  to  see 
him.  No;  it  was  impossible— absolutely  impossible. 
Of  course,  Rebecca  could  see  him ;  could  listen  to  what 
he  had  to  say;  she  would  absent  herself  meanwhile; 
but  for  her  part  she  was  absolutely  out  of  it.  Rebecca 
answered  yes,  that  he  might  come  in  the  afternoon. 

When  he  came  his  hand  grasp  was  moist  and  trem- 
ulous as  one  who  is  perturbed  in  mind  and  who,  mutely, 
beseeches  aid  and  consolation.  Seated,  he  circled  the 
room  in  a  glance  and  then  looked  at  Rebecca  appeal- 
ingly.  She  understood:  "Laura — Miss  Darnby— was 
called  away— about  an  hour  ago— she  was  sorry — " 

She  stopped.  The  cold  dejection  which  usurped  his 
feverish  expectancy  disturbed  her  in  the  stammering 
excuse.  Manifestly  'he  had  suffered  in  the  last  few 
weeks ;  there  had  been  an  intense  struggle  between  his 
pride  and  his  passion  before  the  latter  had  succeeded 
in  persuading  him  to  this  attempt  at  a  reconciliation. 
He  gave  way:  "I'm  miserable.  I  know  that  I've  not 
treated  Laura  well.  But  I  was  ambitious.  I  did  not 
want  anything  to  stand  in  my  way.  I  sacrificed  every- 
thing in  the  hope  of  making  a  name  in  the  theatre.  But 
I  find  that  the  heart  is  more  vital  to  man  than  art." 

Always  something  of  a  poseur,  the  last  sentence 
pleased  him  so  that  its  discovery  assuaged  his  distress 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  to  his  experience  with 
Marshall,  and  as  he  voided  his  bile  he  was  the  more  re- 
lieved. God,  what  a  man!  It  was  impossible  to  get 
on  with  him.  He  was  not  of  one  mind  for  five  con- 


146  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

secutive  minutes.  First  he  wanted  this  and  then  he 
wanted  the  reverse.  Marshall  had  sent  for  him  to  col- 
laborate in  a  dramatization  of  "Robespierre".  There 
was  no  collaboration  about  it.  Marshall  simply  said 
What  he  wanted  and  Protony  must  do  all  the  work. 
He  was  well  on  with  "Robespierre"  when  Marshall 
had  burst  into  his  room  one  morning  and  ordered  that 
the  play  be  dropped,  that  the  "Scarlet  Letter"  be 
dramatized.  He  (Marshall)  was  sure  that  Arthur 
Dimmesdale  would  add  to  his  reputation  far  more  than 
the  French  Revolutionist.  Two  days  later  he  thought 
that  Charles  Reade's  "What  Will  He  Do  With  It?" 
would  be  the  thing  to  put  on.  Then  he  came  back 
to  "The  Scarlet  Letter".  The  man  was  mad.  That 
very  day,  an  hour  before  leaving  the  hotel,  Marshall 
had  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  writing  a  play  with 
Machiavelli  as  the  central  character.  And  so  it  went  on 
from  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  hour.  Intense  in  his 
want  of  one  thing  one  minute  and  just  as  intense  in 
his  want  of  the  opposite  the  next.  It  was  impossible  to 
accomplish  anything  with  such  a  vacillating,  self-con- 
tradictory creature  around  you.  And  then  his  egotism 
was  something  phenomenal.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
world,  discovered  or  undiscovered,  that  in  his  imagina- 
tion he  could  not  do.  He  imagined  he  knew  all  the 
languages ;  in  his  mind  he  was  a  painter,  sculptor,  com- 
poser, architect  and  more  than  all,  a  writer.  Oh,  yes, 
indeed;  there  were  no  difficulties  in  literature  for  Ro- 
land Marshall;  poetry,  prose;  plays— farce,  comedy, 
tragedy,— novels ;  philosophical  studies  and  essays  on 
the  drama— he  was  a  master  in  all  these  departments. 
Temporarily  relieved  of  his  bitterness  against  Marshall, 
Protony  tactfully  and  tentatively  reconnoitered  the 
subject  of  Laura.  He  put  a  few  tentative  questions. 
Rebecca  answered  evasively.  As  he  became  more  di- 
rect Rebecca's  hints  grew  broader.  Finally  he  under- 
stood. The  flush  in  his  face  told  of  the  hurt  to  his 
pride  and  the  color  deepened  as  Rebecca's  sympathy 
aroused  itself  by  his  manner.  When  he  muttered 
"Good-by"  the  Jewess  saw  that  he  had  a  substitute 
for  his  rancor  against  Marshall. 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  147 

"Laura,"  said  her  companion  on  the  way  to  the 
theatre,  "if  you  had  seen  Clarence  you  would  have 
offered  your  hand— perhaps  your  lips." 

"Never.  My  affection  for  him  died  some  time  ago 
and  contempt  soon  took  the  place  of  respect.  I  had 
rather  seen  in  him  an  open,  a  courageous  brutality, 
than  the  weak,  the  cowardly,  the  vacillating  refinement 
and  selfishness  of  which  he  is  full.  I  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  I  would  rather  be  the  mistress  of 
one  of  those  stock  gamblers  who  pester  me  with  notes 
than  to  be  Protony's  wife.  I'd  despise  myself  in  try- 
ing to  live  with  one  whom  I  despise." 

These  communications  from  the  auditors  became 
more  numerous  as  the  engagement  advanced;  they 
were  different  from  the  letters  of  adolescent  admirers 
she  had  received  in  some  parts  of  the  West,  in  Univer- 
sity towns;  here  in  New  York  the  writers  were  young 
men  and  old,  men-about-town  and  men  of  standing. 
Some  of  the  letters  were  beseechingly  prurient;  some 
nonchalantly  rakish;  a  few  were  formal  in  form  and 
eased  by  an  apologetic  air — hoping  that  the  unusual 
manner  of  extending  a  dinner  invitation  would  be  ex- 
cused—these, every  one,  asked  that  a  reply  be  sent  to 
general  delivery.  Several  were  boldly  libidinous ;  they 
seemed  either  to  exhale  something  feverishly  faunis- 
tic,  or  suggested  the  perfume  of  eros.  One  writer  was 
persistent.  His  first  lines  were  informal;  he  admired 
her  as  an  actress ;  he  hoped  that  some  day  they  would 
meet  and  so  on.  This  was  written  on  an  unstamped 
page.  Then  as  he  got  no  recognition  and  as  he  warmed 
to  his  object  he  disclosed  his  private  and  business 
identity  by  writing  on  the  letter-head  of  a  Wall  Street 
firm  of  which— Laura  saw  by  the  signature— he  was 
the  senior.  One  afternoon  Laura  was  told  that  there 
was  a  lady  downstairs  who  wished  to  speak  with  her 
privately.  She  descended  to  the  dingy  little  parlor, 
where  she  fronted  a  tall,  loosely  constructed  woman 
of  unguessable  age— sallow,  hard-featured  and  half- 
veiled. 

The   woman   extended   her  hand    cordially:    "My 


148  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

name  is  Mrs.  Hopper;  I  am  known  as  'Hop'  in  the 
profession— have  you  heard  of  me?" 
Laura  admitted  her  ignorance. 

Mrs.  Hopper  showed  her  relief.  "I  take  a  deep 
interest  in  the  theatre— artistic  and  commercial.  I 
haven't  failed  to  attend  a  first-night  in  twenty  years. 
I  have  a  wide  acquaintance  among  theatrical  people, 
especially  among  the  ladies  to  whom  I  make  myself 
useful  in  many  ways.  I  frequently  assist  them  in 
making  desirable  engagements.  If  agreeable,  I  should 
like  to  have  you  for  a  friend."  She  paused  for  a 
reply. 

Laura  listened  to  her  with  rising  wonder.  Was 
the  woman  one  of  those  harmless  monomaniacs  who 
have  a  craze  for  everything  pertaining  to  the  stage, 
who  infest  theatres  and  pester  actors  with  their  in- 
tense but  miscellaneous  attention?  But  this  conclu- 
sion was  vitiated  by  the  woman's  appearance— sharp, 
shrewd,  with  a  shadow  of  depravity  on  the  counte- 
nance. Laura  could  only  murmur  some  platitude  about 
being  gratified  to  have  prompted  the  approval  of  such 
a  critical  habitue  of  the  theatre. 

Mrs.  Hopper  pressed  her  motive;  would  Miss 
Darnby  take  dinner  at  Mrs.  Hopper's  some  day  this 
week— say  Friday?  She  would  meet  at  least  one  ad- 
mirer there. 

Indeed?    And  who  was  he — or  she? 

A  Mr.  J.  C.  Wilson,  a  wealthy  broker. 

Laura's  comprehension  was  swift.  She  rose 
quickly  and  asked  Mrs.  Hopper  to  excuse  her.  Mrs. 
Hopper  displayed  no  surprise  at  this  change  in  man- 
ner ;  she  no  doubt  was  accustomed  to  a  rapid  change  in 
treatment.  She  assumed  an  easy,  unoffended  deport- 
ment, wished  Miss  Darnby  good  day,  and  passed  out 
with  an  air  of  having  completed  an  errand  satisfac- 
torily. Laura,  meeting  Mrs.  Quincy  in  the  hall,  asked 
her  if  she  knew  the  Hopper  woman.  Personally,  no; 
Mrs.  Quincy,  however,  knew  of  her;  she  had  called 
frequently  to  see  lodgers;  knew  her  "profession"- 
Mrs.  Quincy  threw  a  long  sentence  of  meaning  into 


FOOTLIGHT  FLA8HES-AND  DASHES.  149 

the  word  and  then  paused,  looking  at  Laura  inquir- 
ingly as  if  in  doubt  about  something. 

"Then  why  do  you  allow  her  to  come  here?" 
The  question  settled  Mrs.  Quincy's  doubt.  She 
turned  voluble.  "What  can  I  do?  Some  girls  will, 
others  will  not.  You  know  the  profession.  All  kinds 
of  theatrical  people  come  and  go  here.  I  can't  govern 
their  morals.  And  then  Hopper  really  makes  busi- 
ness engagements  for  a  few  actresses.  There  is  Maud 
Carp;  it  was  through  'Hop'  that  Maud  was  put  on 
the  road  as  a  star." 

"Did  Mrs.  Hopper  furnish  the  money?" 
"I  don't  know  what  the  arrangements  were;  but 
'Hop'  had  much  to  do  with  it." 

Laura  found  out  the  exact  relations  a  few  days 
later,  when  Mrs.  Hopper  again  called.  Word  was  sent 
up  that  though  the  caller  had  something  important  to 
say  she  would  be  very  brief— would  speak  with  Miss 
Darnby  a  few  minutes  only.  Laura,  encouraged  by 
Rebecca's  assent,  went  dowstairs.  The  woman  was 
diffident  in  manner,  as  one  who  had  committed  an  in- 
discretion and  wished  to  make  amends.  She  hoped 
that  what  she  was  about  to  say  would  be  accepted  in 
the  spirit  in  which  it  was  imparted.  She  had  assisted 
many  of  the  profession  to  higher  positions.  Wealthy 
men's  motives  were  not  always  selfish,  frequently 
they  admired  the  talent  and  the  person  of  an  actress 
disinterestedly;  they  were  happy  to  further  them 
professionally.  Now,  she  believed  that  Mr.  Wilson — 
Laura  started  at  the  name,  but  "Hop"  continued  gently 
—was  one  of  these.  He  made  a  fine  offer.  He  would 
advance  the  money  with  which  to  star  Miss  Darnby — 
would  have  a  play  written  for  her,  would  engage  a 
good  company  and  would  back  the  enterprise  liber- 
ally. He  sincerely  admired  Miss  Darnby;  he — 

Laura  vacated  her  chair  abruptly.  The  feeling 
that  welled  up  in  her  was  new ;  it  surprised  and  mysti- 
fied her;  it  was  devoid  of  indignation.  Her  moral 
nature  was  not  offended.  She  was  rather  exasperated, 
exasperated  at  the  unknown's  persistency.  She  inter- 


150  FOOTLIGHT  FLASIlES-AND  DASHES. 

rupted  "Hop"  with  a  swish-like  "No,"  and  quit  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Quincy  was  talking  with  Rebecca  when  Laura 
came  back.  With  slowly  cooling  emotions  Laura  told 
of  the  latest  overture.  Mrs.  Quincy  listened  attentively 
and  at  the  conclusion  remarked:  "That's  right;  pay 
no  attention  to  him,  yet.  Don't  cheapen  yourself.  If 
he's  dead  gone  on  you  he'll  marry  you.  Many  girls 
have  caught  rich  men  that  way." 

"Marry  me?  Where  did  you  get  the  idea  that  I 
want  to  marry  him?" 

Then  what  did  she  want?  What  was  she  waiting 
for?  Her  lifelong  association  with  the  lower  stratum 
of  the  stage  had  so  blunted  Mrs.  Quincy 's  ethical  sense 
that  she  could  not  understand  Laura's  total  rejection 
of  a  man  of  money.  To  her  understanding,  the  wealth 
possessed  by  a  rich  admirer  should  be  extracted  some- 
how and  the  most  complete  and  efficacious  mode  was 
to  marry  him.  Rebecca  was  silent;  she  said  nothing 
until  the  light  was  turned  off  and  they  were  retiring; 
then  she  murmured  in  a  preoccupied  tone:  "So  he 
offered  to  star  you?" 

For  some  time  notes  and  letters  were  handed  Laura 
by  the  door-keeper,  but  the  graded  diversion  in  their 
perusal  was  lost  one  day  when  a  notice  came  from  the 
theatre,  signed  by  Marshall  personally,  that  he  had 
decided  to  put  "Robespierre"  on  instead  of  a  drama- 
tized version  of  "The  Scarlet  Letter." 

In  the  meanwhile  Ross  had  frequently  called. 
Laura  always  had  excused  herself  but  once.  In  that 
meeting  he  urged  her  and  Rebecca  to  come  to  the 
Waldborough.  He  would  make  a  rate  commensurate 
with  their  income.  Carr  was  there.  The  hotel  had 
become  the  rendezvous  of  Chicago  people;  they  would 
find  it  very  agreeable.  But  when  Laura  answered 
"Yes,  and  Protony  is  there",  he  understood. 

Protony  now  passed  her  in  and  about  the  theatre 
without  recognition.  Once  she  formally  bowed  to  him 
but  he  did  not  respond— going  by  with  a  stiff,  aloofish 
air  slightly  stressed  by  implication  of  reprisal.  She 
felt  that  he  had  been  affronted  in  an  ultimate  degree; 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  151 

yet  in  all  their  quarrels  and  separations  she  had  never 
before  detected  a  retaliatory  trait  in  him.  She  thought 
her  observation  must  be  at  fault  when  it  indicated  re- 
sentment on  his  part— until  rehearsals  for  "Robes- 
pierre" began.  Laura  and  Rebecca  both  were  letter 
perfect  at  the  first  call,  when  they  found  Protony  in 
charge  of  the  stage.  The  company  was  told  that  Mr. 
Marshall  would  not  be  present  until  the  dress  rehear- 
sal. Robespierre  in  the  interim  would  be  done  by  Mr. 
Oarruthers,  a  minor  member. 

Protony  was  calm  and  considerate  with  everybody 
but  Laura.  When  he  addressed  her  it  was  in  a  po- 
litely irritated  tone.  He  required  her  to  repeat  lines, 
suggesting  that  her  intonation  was  faulty.  At  the  sec- 
ond rehearsal  her  bow  displeased  him ;  it  was  not  suffi- 
ciently stately.  "Miss  Darnby"— he  drawled  the 
Darnby— "you  do  it  as  an  indifferent  actress,  not  as 
a  queen." 

Though  calm  outwardly  the  taunt  stirred  her;  but 
she  was  ready  with  a  retort:  "Mr. — Mr.  Um— what 
is—  Oh,  yes;  Protony:  Mr.  Protony,  Marie  Antoinette 
was  not  a  stately  woman.  If  you  don't  know  you 
ought  to  know  that  Marie  Theresa  was  constantly  up- 
braiding her  daughter  for  being  frivolous  in  manner 
and  reckless  in  dress.  Why,  she  returned  a  portrait 
of  her  daughter  with  these  very  words:  'I  should 
have  been  happy  to  receive  a  portrait  of  the  Queen  of 
France,  but  as  you  have  sent  me  the  picture  of  an 
actress,  I  return  it'." 

The  rebuke  administered  before  the  company  paled 
him.  He  answered  in  a  keyed  voice  that  betrayed  ris- 
ing temper:  "And  if  you  don't  know,  Miss— Miss — 
Miss— Darnby,  I  will  tell  you  that  this  play  acts  when 
Louis  XVI,  Marie  Antoinette's  husband,  was  deposed, 
acts  when  Marie  Antoinette's  life  had  turned  to  trag- 
edy. The  very  act  we  are  rehearsing  is  in  a  prison, 
notwithstanding  the  Queen  is  surrounded  by  people 
of  the  court — all  political  prisoners.  Marie  Antoinette 
had  become  a  woman  whose  trials  had  dignified  her. 

"Then,  sir,  you  are  taking  liberties  with  history. 
At  no  time  during  Marie  Antoinette's  prison  life  was 


152  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

she  surrounded  by  people  of  the  court.  At  first  she 
was  with  her  children,  the  King  and  his  sister.  Finally 
she  was  alone.  Better  re-write  your  play.  It  is  idiotic 
as  it  is." 

She  regretted  the  last  sentence  immediately  she  had 
uttered  it,  though  she  had  wished  for  an  inspiration 
which  would  hurt  him.  It  struck  square ;  it  made  him 
white  and  rigid.  The  company  stopped  astounded; 
even  Rebecca  was  surprised  at  Laura's  impertinence. 

The  first  word  came  from  Protony;  they  were 
uttered  in  a  low  tremulous  tone :  ' '  Thank  you,  I  shall 
convey  your  suggestion  to  Mr.  Marshall. ' ' 

Then  he  ordered  the  rehearsal  to  proceed.  Laura 
went  through  her  part  mechanically,  feeling  as  one  who 
had  committed  an  overt  act  to  her  own  astonishment. 
Protony  was  deliberate  the  rest  of  the  day.  Laura  had 
never  seen  him  with  that  determined  expression. 

"I'm  afraid  you  went  too  far  to-day,"  said  Rebecca 
on  the  way  home.  "You  struck  him  deep." 

"He  exasperated  me,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

The  third  morning  after  she  and  Protony  had  ex- 
asperated each  other  she  received  her  conge.  Enclosed 
in  the  note  from  Marshall's  manager  was  a  checque 
calling  in  amount  for  the  salary  earned  and  a  fort- 
night's advance.  Her  dismissal  was  briefly  worded: 
"Your  services  have  become  unsatisfactory.  I  must  ask 
you  not  to  favor  us  with  your  presence  at  the  theatre." 
She  had  expected  this  the  morning  after  her  tilt  with 
Protony,  but  as  nothing  was  said  the  second  day  the 
fear  of  discharge  had  been  allayed.  The  peremptory 
expulsion,  then,  shocked  her  after  all. 

The  same  evening  the  newspapers  announced  that 
Miss  Laura  Darnby,  having  been  dismissed  for  insub- 
ordination, her  parts  would  be  taken  by  Miss  Caroline 
Carr,  whose  character,  in  turn,  would  be  assumed  by 
Felicia  Eoyle,  of  Sol  Smiles  Runnels  Company.  When 
Rebecca  read  of  the  change  she  immediately  advised 
Lanra  to  appi^  for  Felicia  Royle's  work.  "Send  a  note 
to  Runnels  at  once  and  tker  ««-U  on  him  tomorrow  at 
noon." 

Laura  wrote  that  her  separation  troir  *h.«  Marshall 


Vv       '_ 


"  {Jetter  re-write  your  play.    It  is  idiotic."— Page  154. 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  153 

Company  was  not  due  to  insubordination;  it  was  the 
result  of  an  enmity  between  one  of  the  authors  of 
"Robespierre"  and  herself.  A  reply  over  an  illegi- 
ble signature  came  within  an  hour  and  with  it  the  part 
of  Vinnie,  the  Southern  girl,  in  "A  Lonely  Valley," 
which  she  would  please  study  this  evening  and  come  to 
rehearsal  at  ten  o'clock  the  next  day.  Laura  was  still 
going  over  the  lines  when  Rebecca  returned  from  the 
theatre  at  midnight.  She  was  charged  with  news, 
but  vowed  she  would  say  nothing  until  Laura  was  well 
in  her  role.  Anything,  no  matter  how  startling,  from 
the  Marshall  Company  would  not  disturb  her,  Laura 
insisted. 

Very  well,  then.  Carr  was  positively  wretched  as 
Clara.  She  had  to  be  prompted  right  along;  she  didn't 
get  a  band  from  the  house;  Marshall  was  in  a  dog's 
humor  because  Carr  nearly  wrecked  the  banquet  scene 
by  her  nervousness.  But  the  most  interesting  of  all 
— here  the  Jewess  looked  at  Laura  intently — 

"I  saw  Protony;  or,  rather  he  was  waiting  for  me 
at  the  door  of  the  dressing  room."  She  stopped  to 
note  the  effect  of  this,  but  as  Laura  looked  unmoved, 
even  unconcerned,  she  continued:  "He  was  badly  cut 
up,  poor  devil.  He  wanted  to  assure  me  in  a  breath 
that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  your  dicharge.  He  said 
some  one  reported  your  row  to  Marshall.  Marshall 
then  sent  for  Protony,  who  had  to  tell  him  what  you 
said.  He  tried  to  make  light  of  the  affair;  tried  to 
excuse  you,  but  Marshall  would  not  have  it.  He  or- 
dered the  manager  to  discharge  you.  Do  you  believe 
that?" 

"Yes.  I  know  Protony  so  well  that  I  believe  he 
regretted  the  quarrel  by  the  time  he  reached  the  hotel. 
And  I  believe  that  Carr  told  Marshall." 

Before  starting  for  the  theatre  a  note  came  from 
Ross,  again  inviting  her  to  make  the  Waldborough  her 
home. 

"He  certainly  knows  of  your  doings,"  Rebecca  ob- 
served. 

"And  I  certainly  know  nothing  of  his." 

In  the  manager's  office  sh'e  recognized  the  voice  of 


154  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES- AND  DASHES. 

the  man  who  greeted  her  and  the  face  was  not  unfamil- 
iar; but  the  bearing,  the  manner  and  the  sartorial  ap- 
pearance were  completely  transformed.  "Is  it  you, 
Mr.  Freeman?" 

"  'Tis  I,"  was  the  reply,  in  mock  theatricals.  Then, 
naturally : ' '  That  is  why  you  were  engaged  so  promptly. 
I  told  Mr.  Runnels  that  I  knew  your  work,  so  he  told 
me  to  send  for  you  immediately.  I've  been  with  him  a 
month. ' ' 

He  was  not  the  Fred  Freeman  of  the  West,  but 
Frederick  S.  Freeman,  of  New  York,  perfectly  adapted 
to  the  new  conditions ;  his  clothes  were  almost  elegant, 
with  not  a  suspicion  of  extravagance  in  cut  or  color; 
the  only  ornament  was  a  watch  and  that  was  incon- 
spicuously worn  in  the  trousers  with  a  black  fob.  His 
deportment  was  subdued.  The  broad,  aggressive  smile 
had  been  exchanged  for  a  countenance  of  quiet  good 
nature  and  the  perennial  cigar  had  been  extracted  from 
his  teeth. 

While  they  waited  for  Runnels,  Freeman  told  of 
his  shifts  and  wanderings  with  chance  companies  or- 
ganized in  Chicago  for  a  month,  a  week,  a  night  even 
—for  one  performance  to  make  a  couple  of  hundred 
dollars  in  a  county  fair  town.  But  now  he  was  posi- 
tioned. He  had  attained  that  which  he  had  sought  for 
years,  the  business  head  of  an  organization  of  high 
standing.  And  Mr.  Runnels  was  perfection.  Never 
any  misunderstanding.  Why  he— "Here  he  comes." 

The  typical  Yankee  comedian,  very  tall,  very  thin 
and  dyspeptic.  A  humorous  mouth,  and  big  clear  eyes 
in  a  face  that  defied  an  estimate  of  age— he  could  be 
either  thirty*  or  sixty.  In  a  low  dry  voice  that  hit  the 
r's  roughly,  Laura  was  told  that  she  would  do.  Then 
they  went  back,  and  following  introductions  to  mem- 
bers of  the  company— only  one  of  which,  Byron,  a  hand- 
some leading  man,  projected,  Laura  thought,  from  the 
ordinary  shop  line— the  one  hurried  rehearsal  necessary 
for  Laura's  co-operation  in  "Lonely  Valley"  began. 
It  was  a  pitiably,  commonplace  dramatic  concoction, 
but  it  gave  Sol  Smiles  Runnels  complete  scope  to  play 
himself— a  Yankee  youth-  of  raw  manners,  dry  humor 


FOOTLIGIIT  FLASHES- AND  DASHES.  155 

and  infinite  invention.  On  the  way  back  to  Mrs.  Quin- 
cy's  it  occurred  to  Laura  that  she  could  enliven  her 
part  by  giving  the  Southern  girl  a  Southern  accent. 
A  native  of  lower  Missouri,  she  knew  the  South  and 
its  speech  well ;  so  she  spent  the  afternoon  in  softening 
the  consonants  and  accentuating  the  vowels  of  the  lines. 
In  the  evening,  after  the  first  act,  Byron  complimented 
her  warmly ;  it  was  an  innovation ;  she  had  done  some- 
thing with  a  role  that  had  always  been  a  lay  figure. 
The  women  of  the  cast,  two  old,  one  uncertain,  one 
young,  assumed  an  attitude  so  pronouncedly  high 
chinned  that  Laura,  at  first  doubtful  of  the  sincerity 
of  Byron's  commendation,  was  now  certain  of  the  dis- 
tinction of  her  work— until  she  met  Runnels;  he  did 
not  respond  to  her  formal  salutation,  but  turned  aside 
•with  an  air  that  was  affectedly  preoccupied.  This  con- 
fused her;  perhaps  the  women  were  right;  perhaps 
their  disdain  was  really  justified ;  perhaps  her  endeavor 
to  give  tone  and  blood  to  a  wooden  image  was  over- 
leaping in  its  effect.  And  yet  she  was  twice  applauded 
in  open  scene. 

No,  she  had  not  been  mistaken ;  the  morning  papers 
dispelled  all  misgivings  and  confirmed  all  hopes.  Though 
the  notices  were  brief  they  were  unanimously  favora- 
ble; the  critics  with  realistic  convictions  were  emphat- 
ically eulogistic. 

She  passed  the  women  of  the  company  that  evening 
with  a  superb  sweep,  her  head  stiffly  poised,  an  atti- 
tude that  was  very  much  modified  a  moment  later  when 
she  met  Runnels.  To  her  warm,  full  toned,  "Good 
evening,  Mr.  Runnels,"  he  returned  an  iron  stare. 
There  was  no  mistaking  it  this  time ;  he  was  sheerly  dis- 
pleased. Like  all  sensitive,  conscientious  natures,  she 
became  self-accusative,  sought  for  the  cause  of  other 
people's  displeasure  in  herself— in  something  that  she 
had  inadvertantly  said  or  done.  She  thought  of  all 
manner  of  indiscretions  she  probably  had  committed. 
Was  it  the  tacit  tilt  with  the  women*  Had  she  pro- 
voked jealousy  or  fomented  disharmony  in  the  com- 
pany ?  Stars  and  managers  dislike  a  troublesome  mem- 
ber and  she  perhaps  had  unwittingly  become  one.  She 


156  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

decided  to  explain  to  Runnels,  to  express  her  regrets 
to — no;  she  would  say  nothing  to  Runnels.  Instead 
she  would  go  to  Freeman  and  let  him  explain.  With 
her  mind  eased  she  played  the  Southern  girl  heart 
whole.  The  applause  from  the  refined  ripple  of  gloves 
in  the  parquet  to  the  positive  clap  of  bare  hands  in 
the  gallery  was  frequent  and  swelling— applause  whose 
emphasis  seemed  suggested  by  the  favorable  notices  in 
the  newspapers.  After  the  one  scene— in  the  last  act 
—from  which  Runnels  and  Laura  exit  together,  the 
actor  was  almost  rude;  he  scowled  and  turned  away 
brusquely.  The  thought  that  Freeman  would  soon  de- 
fine her  position  prevented  an  evaporation  of  her  ex- 
uberant serenity  even  when  he  saluted  her  distantly  as 
she  met  him  going  toward  the  stage  door. 

"Mr.  Freeman,  when  and  where  could  I  see  you  to- 
morrow ? ' ' 

"That's  a  coincidence.  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I'll 
call  at  the  house  sometime  in  the  morning. ' ' 

He  came  quite  early — for  a  man  of  the  theatre.  He 
was  told  to  come  upstairs,  where  he  found  Laura  don- 
ning a  light  waist  and  Rebecca  combing  her  deep  black 
hair.  Neither  he  nor  they  were  embarassed  by  the 
negligee  appearance  of  the  apartment  and  its  occu- 
pants; it  was  as  if  he  had  entered  a  dressing  room  at 
the  theatre.  Without  preliminaries  she  plunged  into 
her  worriment: 

"It  isn't  my  fault  that  Mr.  Runnels  was  displeased. 
The  women  are  jealous ;  they  snubbed  me  and  I  resented 
it.  Now  Fred,  I—" 

"My  dear  girl,  you  are  on  the  wrong  tack.  The 
jealousy  of  the  women  and  your  resentment  of  it  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  alone  are  at  fault." 

"Well,  what  have  I  done?" 

He  paused  as  if  hesitating  between  a  choke  of  sug- 
gestions that  would  convey  his  answer  implicitly, 
rather  than  explicitly.  Finally:  "When  you  rehearsed 
your  part  did  anyone  tell  you  to  use  a  dialect?" 

Rebecca,  who  was  still  busy  at  the  mirror,  turned, 
faced  him  fully,  gave  him  a  sharp  look  and  then  smiled 
knowingly  as  if  she  had  detected  the  trouble.  Laura 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  157 

answered :  ' '  Why,  no ;  but  as  Vinnie  is  a  Southern 
girl  I  thought  it  quite  in  character  to  give  her  the  soft 
intonation  of  the  South.  I  thought  it  would  make  her 
more  interesting." 

He  hesitated  again,  seeming  to  search  for  a  phrase 
that  would  not  be  too  compromising:  "Laura"— his 
tone  was  low  and  intimate— "Mr.  Runnels  makes  it 
a  rule  not  to  allow  innovations  without  being  consulted. 
The  part  has  always  been  played  in  a  plain  sort  of  way, 
so  you  had  better  drop  the  dialect  and  not  exert  your- 
self too  much.  Mr.  Runnels  will  do  the  heavy  work 
himself.  You  understand  what  I  mean." 

She  did  not  get  his  meaning  completely;  but  Re- 
becca, whose  smile  broadened,  understood. 

Freeman,  seeing  that  Rebecca  had  caught  the  situ- 
ation, quickly  changed  the  talk.  He  spoke  of  the  com- 
pany's route.  After  playing  in  New  York  a  month 
longer  they  would  play  all  the  big  towns  directly  west 
to  San  Francisco.  From  San  Francisco  they  would  go 
to  Texas,  then  the  Gulf  cities  and  from  Florida  along 
the  Atlantic  Coast  back  to  New  York,  where  a  new  play 
would  be  produced.  Carl  Smith  was  writing  the  new 
piece ;  the  locale  was  in  Illinois,  in  Lincoln 's  early  days, 
and  Runnels  would  be  a  country  lawyer  who  was  in 
sympathy  with  Lincoln's  ideas;  he  would  be  droll, 
heroic  and  sympathetic. 

In  a  tone  in  which  ingenious  mockery  was  inno- 
cently infused  Rebecca  asked :  Will  it  be  a  one-part 
play?  Will  there  be  other  parts  besides  that  of  the 
Illinois  attorney?" 

He  feigned  to  be  dull  to  her  sarcasm  and  responded 
cheerily  that  there  would  be  several  strong  characters. 
The  leading  lady— Laura— would  have  an  excellent 
part.  He  believed,  indeed,  that  the  drama  required  a 
larger  company.  Perhaps  Miss  Rosenau  might  be  in- 
duced to  join  next  season?  This  as  he  took  his  hat  to 
leave. 

But  Rebecca  would  have  a  parting  shot.  It  was 
unlikely.  While  Mr.  Marshall  was  not  the  most  amia- 
ble fellow  in  or  out  of  the  theatre,  he  allowed  develop- 


158  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

merit,  was  not  small  or  cheap ;  was  not  envious  of  atten- 
tion that  a  member  of  his  company  might  attract. 

Laura  understood.  To  be  sure  of  her  understand- 
ing she  asked  directly  that  Freeman  had  gone:  "So 
you  believe  Runnels  is  jealous  of  the  notices  I  got?" 

"To  be  sure.  It  is  that  and  nothing  else.  He 
thinks  your  work  belittles  him  just  so  much— and  I 
think  he  is  right.  The  man  can't  act.  He's  got  enough 
Yankee  humor  in  him  to  entertain  an  audience  for  about 
fifteen  minutes.  He's  Yankee  in  everything  he  tries 
to  do;  a  Yankee  in  classic  comedy,  a  Yankee  in  farce 
melodrama.  He  ought  to  go  back  to  where  he  came 
from,  vaudeville." 

Laura  grew  more  indignant  than  Rebecca  the  longer 
she  thought  of  the  virtual  command  to  suppress  her- 
self. For  the  first  time  she  had  been  ordered  not  to 
do  her  best.  And  this  suppression  was  to  innure  to  the 
benefit  of  an  inconceiva'ble  egotist,  of  a  small,  narrow 
and  incompetent  actor.  It  was  a  monstrous  demand !  It 
was  unheard  of !  It  was  contemptible !  She  walked  the 
floor,  burning  in  anger.  No!  she  would  not  submit! 
She  would  treat  the  order  with  contempt.  From  now 
on  she  would  surpass  herself,  just  to  defy  that  Yankee. 

As  Laura's  indignation  waxed,  Rebecca's  waned. 
The  Jewess  became  thoughtful.  She  had  her  eyes  on  the 
floor  contemplatively  until  Laura  was  calmed  by  the 
resolve  to  do  her  utmost.  Then  Rebecca  observed  re- 
flectively in  a  low  voice :  "If  you  don 't  do  as  he  wants 
he  may  dismiss  you." 

To  Rebecca's  dismay  this  re-inflamed  Laura.  Very 

well,  let  Trim  dismiss  and  be .  The  oath  surprised 

Rebecca;  it  shocked  Laura.  But  in  her  intensity  she 
involuntarily  uttered  the  smallest  blasphemy  of  the 
many  which  ihad  entered  her  ear  since  she  became  a 
player.  The  little  word  hushed  Rebecca's  intention 
to  bring  her  friend  to  a  compromising  state. 

Laura  played  her  part  in  a  defiant  strain  all  week. 
The  Southern  enunciation  was  specialized.  On  Satur- 
day, after  the  performance,  she  got  a  note— with  a  fort- 
night's salary  enclosed— notifying  her  that  her  work 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  159 

being  unsatisfactory,  the  management  was  compelled 
to  dispense  with  her  services. 

On  Monday  The  Diary  said:  "Miss  Darnby  was 
compelled  to  disengage  herself  from  the  Runnels  Com- 
pany in  consequence  of  the  recurrence  of  the  fatal 
malady  with  which  she  was  afflicted  whilst  a  member 
of  the  Marshall  Company,  namely,  exaggerated  self- 
esteem." 

Two  papers  announced  shortly  and  brutally  that 
she  had  been  discharged  for  the  second  time  for  insub- 
ordination. Other  journals  had  only  two  lines  in  the 
column  given  to  the  gossip  of  the  theatre.  These  read : 
' '  The  Vinnie  of  the  Lonely  Valley,  Miss  Laura  Darnby, 
has  severed  her  relations  with  the  Runnels  Company." 

The  fling  in  The  Diary  stung  Laura.  Without  con- 
sulting Rebecca,  scarcely  reflecting,  she  wrote  a  note 
to  the  editor  protesting  against  the  injustice  of  the 
irony.  She  explained  the  cause  of  her  discharge,  end- 
ing the  explanation  with :  "I  tried  to  make  Vinnie  the 
Southern  girl  as  I  understood  her,  and  in  trying  to 
make  her  truthful  I  collided  with  Mr.  Runnel's  vanity." 

The  Diary  published  the  protest  with  the  curt  com- 
ment: "Miss  Darnby  mistakes  Mr.  Runnel's  vanity 
for  her  own  phenomenal  conceit  and  recusancy." 

Rebecca,  when  she  read  the  lines,  stared  at  Laura. 
Her  astonishment  prevented  speech  for  several  minutes. 
She  let  the  paper  drop,  walked  to  the  window  and  stood 
there  without  seeing  anything.  She  seemed  to  be  try- 
ing to  control  or  to  extenuate  something  that  pos- 
sessed her.  Finally  she  turned:  "Laura,  you've  done 
some  surprisingly  indiscreet  things  lately,  but  in  this 
you've  gone  about  as  far  as  the  law  allows." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  you  are  barring  yourself  from  engage- 
ments; you  are  committing  professional  suicide.  It  is 
well  enough  to  be  talked  about,  to  be  written  about 
— such  things  help  when  they  do  not  conflict  with  man- 
agers. But  you  are  making  enemies  amongst  the  very 
people  upon  whom  you  must  depend  for  advancement. 
You  will  get  the  reputation  of  a  kicker,  which  is  even 
worse  than,  having  the  reputation  of  a  Jonah.  No  man- 


160  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

ager  will  dare  to  engage  you.  I  have  not  been  In  this 
profession  very  long,  but  I  know  that  in  order  to  get  on 
a  woman  must  make  concessions,  she  must  flatter  and 
cajole  people  in  authority;  must  twist  and  turn  until 
she  gets  an  absolutely  strong  foothold.  Then  she  may 
do  as  she  pleases.  But  what  are  we— you  and  I?  We 
are  nobodies  as  yet.  We've  got  to  take  our  medicine 
as  it  comes.  But  really,  Laura,  I  didn't  think  you  could 
lose  your  head  so  far  as  to  write  such  a  note,  and  of 
all  the  papers,  to  The  Diary.  Why,  don 't  you  know  that 
the  critic,  Rob  Roy,  is  hand  in  glove  with  the  big  men  ? 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  big  men?  Runnels  man- 
ages his  own  company.  Freeman  is  a  hired  man. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  does  Runnels  own  a  theatre  in  New  York? 
He  couldn't  play  here  without  the  consent  of  the  own- 
ers, the  big  men,  they  who  control  the  best  theatres 
in  New  York,  and  what  do  stars  or  companies  amount 
to  if  they  cannot  play  in  a  popular  house  in  New 
York  from  time  to  time?  New  York  makes  or  breaks 
an  actor  or  a  play.  Then  you  should  never  attempt 
to  correct  a  newspaper  until  you  are  at  the  top.  If  I 
were  accused  of  murder  I  shouldn't  protest  unless  I 
were  a  star,  and  then  I'd  sue  the  publisher  for  adver- 
tising purposes."  -  .,"4 

"Well,  I'm  not  important  enough  for  the  big  men 
to  pay  any  attention  to  me." 

A  fortnight  later  she  was  not  so  sure.  A  call  at 
the  office  of  the  dramatic  journals  to  change  the  read- 
ing of  her  card,  a  visit  to  the  agencies  to  remind  them 
that  she  was  at  liberty  prompted  the  suspicion  that  she 
had  incurred  the  displeasure  of  somebody  high  in 
authority.  Mr.  Farnum  was  polite,  but  his  politeness 
had  a  nipping  air.  The  other  editor  was  impatiently 
laconic.  Yes,  yes,  he  would  see  that  her  card  was 
changed,  but  she  must  excuse  him,  he  was  very  busy. 
At  the  Brown  Agency,  Brown  looked  at  her  wonder- 
ingly  for  a  moment.  She  was  looking  for  an  engage- 
ment ?  Oh,  of  course,  he  would  see  what  he  could  do 
for  her.  Then  he  became  absorbed  in  an  apparently 
deep  matter  with  his  assistant.  The  other  agent  mo- 
tioned Laura  o'ff-handedly  to  take  a  seat  and  continued 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES.  161 

his  conversation  with  an  inflated  and  flabby,  false- 
voiced  and  false-haired  'blonde  whose  business  had  evi- 
dently ended  and  who  made  ready  to  go  several  times 
but  something  always  occurred  to  the  agent  just  as 
she  was  about  to  rise;  finally  as  Laura  and  the  other 
woman  showed  signs  of  impatience,  ingenuity  to  pro- 
long the  one-sided  talk  failed  him.  But  for  fully  five 
minutes  after  he  did  not  remember  that  Laura  was 
present.  A  very  important  letter  held  him.  Laura  at 
last  spoke  up  determinedly.  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,  to  be 
sure.  He  was  becoming  wretchedly  absent-minded.  An 
engagement?  Why,  what  was  the  matter  with  the 
Runnels  Company  ?  Laura  told  him,  shortly,  the  cause 
of  her  discharge,  though  she  felt  that  he  knew  the 
trouble.  He  affected  surprise  as  she  related  her  diffi- 
culty. Too  bad;  too  bad.  Runnels  was  a  fine  fellow; 
he  had  a  fine  company ;  one  of  the  most  popular  actors 
in  the  country  and  what  a  money-maker.  Too  bad,  too 
bad.  Well,  he  would  see  what  he  could  do.  But  he 
was  very  busy  this  afternoon.  She  would  excuse  him, 
wouldn't  she? 

Laura  walked  out  with  humiliation  and  indignation 
contending  within  her.  At  that  moment  she  was  very 
near  accepting  Ross'  renewed  invitation  to  come 
to  the  hotel.  But  no;  Protony  was  there  and  Carr. 
This  momentary  weakness  was  not  a  moral  relapse; 
it  was  more  a  wish  to  feel  secure  materially. 

"Did  you  find  anything,  Laura?"  Rebecca  asked. 

She  answered  shortly,  "No." 

The  Jewess'  quick  perception  told  her  that  her  com- 
panion was  in  no  mood  to  exchange  ideas  that  day,  so 
Laura  was  not  disturbed  in  her  thoughts  and  vague 
plans.  Amongst  these  was  a  recurrent  wish  to  go 
home,  impulsive  desires  that  were  as  quickly  extin- 
guished by  pride  and  cold  reason.  Her  father  had  not 
yet  written.  The  mother's  letters  had  become  dis- 
tinctly infrequent  as  the  daughter's  correspondence 
became  negligent.  Had  she  been  very  successful  in 
her  profession— a  success  which  had  spread  through- 
out the  country— and  were  she  correspondingly  pros- 
perous she  would  go  home.  But  now— twice  dismissed 


162  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

—without  an  engagement — with  very  little  money — 
Impossible!  Her  pride  forbade  it.  But  what  could 
she  do  ? 

That  question  occupied  her  in  increasing  anxiety 
from  day  to  day.  No  word  came  from  the  agencies. 
The  dramatic  papers  contained  nothing  but  out-of- 
town  offers  from  third-rate  managers  of  unknown  re- 
sponsibility. At  every  manifestation  of  never  so  tact- 
ful sympathy  from  Rebecca,  Laura  withdrew  within 
herself  the  more.  Besides  the  little  Jewess  soon  had 
troubles  of  her  own.  "Robespierre"  was  finally  pro- 
duced. It  proved  an  egregious  failure  and  Marshall 
went  down  in  the  wreck.  Not  since  he  had  left  the 
concert  stage,  a  young  man  with  a  pretty  voice,  had  he 
been  so  criticised.  Even  the  critics,  who  always  had 
been  friendly  to  Marshall's  work,  exposed  the  crass 
crudeness  of  the  authors  and  the  complete  misconcep- 
tion of  Robespierre  by  Marshall,  who  the  Courier 
averred,  gave  the  Revolutionist  Napoleon's  strut,  La- 
martine's  face,  Grammont's  garments  and  delicacy  of 
manner  and  a  woman's  tenderness;  instead  of  making 
him  "a  poor  sea-green  atrabiliar  formula  of  a  man, 
without  head,  without  heart,  or  any  grace,  gift  or  even 
vice  beyond  the  common,  if  it  were  not  vanity,  astucity, 
diseased  rigor  (which  some  count  strength)  as  of  a 
cramp ;  meant  by  nature  to  be  a  Methodist  parson  of  the 
structural  sort ;  to  doom  men  who  depart  from  the  writ- 
ten confession;  to  chop  fruitless  logic;  to  contend  to 
suspect  and  ineffectually  wrestle  and  wriggle;  and  on 
the  whole  to  lose  or  to  be  nothing;  who,  the  sport  of 
wrecking  winds,  saw  himself  whirled  aloft  to  command 
la  premiere  nation  de  1'  universe  and  all  men  shouting 
long  life  to  him ;  one  of  the  most  lamentable  sea-green 
objects  ever  whirled  aloft  in  that  manner  in  any  coun- 
try to  his  own  swift  destruction  and  the  world's  long 
wonder. ' ' 

Rebecca  alone  was  saved,  and  in  being  rescued  her 
prophecy,  made  weeks  ago,  that  she  would  be  found 
solitary  on  a  wreckage  heap,  was  fulfilled.  The  mob 
woman  was  exempted  from  the  lava  of  disapprobation 
that  poured  upon  the  theatre.  She  was  the  single 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES- AND  DASHES.  163 

gleaming  truth  that  shone  through  the  dark,  laborious 
mass  of  impossibilities.  Marshall,  Rebecca  said,  was 
in  a  hyena's  humor  all  week.  She  feared  discharge, 
so  savage  was  he  with  her  that  she  should  be  an  excep- 
tion to  the  crushing  fiasco.  She  slighted  her  work  in 
the  two  last  nights  of  the  week,  hoping  thus  to  diminish 
the  applause  and  mollify  Marshall  accordingly.  When 
"A  Romance  of  Old  Madrid"  was  reproduced  the  fol- 
lowing week  she  almost  obliterated  herself.  Marshall 
then  condescended  to  address  her  civilly.  "To  get 
ahead,"  Rebecca  explained  to  Laura,  "we  must  step 
aside  occasionally  to  let  the  people  who  pay  your  board 
pass. ' ' 

Despite  her  troubles  Laura  was  curious  to  know 
how  Protony  took  the  failure. 

"I  don't  know  how  he  took  it,  but  Marshall  dis- 
charged him  the  next  day.  But,  my  dear,"  she  added, 
"I've  got  good  news  for  you  and  bad  news  for  me — 
for  both  of  us,  I  mean.  I've  got  an  engagement  for 
you  in  New  York,  while  our  company  leaves  for  the 
West.  I  see  by  your  face  that  you  are  pleased  and 
sorry  at  the  same  time ;  so  am  I ! " 

The  opening  was  at  the  National  Theatre  in  Sixth 
Avenue,  a  house  with  a  stock  company,  whose  repertoire 
commenced  with  Shakespeare  and  ended  with  plays 
popular  in  the  early  '70 's.  The  manager,  Edelstein, 
wanted  a  second  lead  and  hearing  that  the  failure  of 
"Robespierre"  had  compelled  Marshall  to  cancel  the 
major  part  of  his  New  York  date,  thought  that  some 
woman  of  the  company,  preferably  Rosenau,  would  pre- 
fer playing  in  New  York  at  the  National  to  remaining 
with  Marshall  on  the  road.  In  declining  the  offer  Re- 
becca recommended  Laura  and  explained  her  compan- 
ion's former  difficulties. 

Laura  found  the  manager  and  his  establishment 
charged  with  very  recent  prosperity.  Edelstein  was 
doing  for  himself  and  the  drama  what  a  Boston  spec- 
ulator in  theatricals,  Harold  Savant,  had  done  a  year 
before  and  was  still  doing  for  himself  and  for  music; 
getting  rich  by  producing  opera  at  a  minimum  price 
of  admission.  It  was  Edelstein 's  minutely  wrought  de- 


164  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

cluction  that  he  could  do  with  plays  what  Savant  was 
doing  with  operas  and  after  the  same  manner.  The 
chief  points  of  this  manner  were  in  selecting  uncopy- 
right  works;  in  engaging  a  few  competent  players 
who  were  pressed  for  employment,  men  and  women 
once  popular,  but  whose  popularity  had  been  impaired 
by  time's  ravages,  by  scandal,  by  a  hurried  course  of 
living.  The  others  were  actors  admired  in  the  interior 
who  seized  this  opportunity  to  appear  in  the  metropolis ; 
actors  stranded  high  and  dry  on  the  Rialto  by  the  fail- 
ure of  a  company  or  because  of  an  uncompromising 
quarrel  with  a  star  or  management;  actors  recruited 
from  the  most  promising  students  of  the  schools  of  act- 
ing. The  lesser  points  to  success  were  in  leasing  a  prac- 
tically abandoned  theatre  at  a  deep  concession,  a  thea- 
tre ill-starred  and  away  from  Broadway's  magic;  in 
giving  two  performances  daily.  It  was  the  latter  inno- 
vation which  Laura  soon  found  trying.  By  Saturday 
night  she  was  undone  and  felt  that  she  must  have  a 
day's  rest;  but  Sunday  was  the  day  of  large  receipts, 
the  manager's  real  bread  winner.  Rebecca,  preparing 
to  leave  with  the  Marshall  Company,  was  all  encourage- 
ment. She  buoyed  her  companion  with  the  prospect 
of  a  week's  rest,  for  a  play  was  sure  to  be  put  on  in 
whose  cast  Laura  would  have  no  place.  As  for  being 
alone,  that  was  only  temporary,  and  a  change  of  room 
didn't  matter. 

The  Marshall  organization  would  return  soon;  she 
had  heard  talk  of  Marshall  building  a  theatre  in  New 
York  where  he  could  permanently  remain. 

They  bade  each  other  an  affectionate  good-bye — 
tearful  on  Laura's  part.  Rebecca  once  gone,  an  acute 
sense  of  loneliness  overcame  Laura  in  the  small  cham- 
ber with  one  window  gazing  upon  the  alley,  to  which 
she  had  been  transferred.  She  then  realized  the  worth 
of  the  little  Jewess'  companionship— of  her  incisive 
cleverness,  her  cautious  energy,  her  diplomatic  deter- 
mination, her  long-sighted  advke.  Never  was  she  so 
much  in  need  of  a  companion  as  now,  for  the  work  at 
the  National  Theatre  had  reduced  her  to  that  state  of 
neurasthenia  which  makes  fine-nerved  women  a  dread 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES- AND  DASHES.  165 

to  themselves.  The  hours  not  spent  at  the  theatre  or 
in  bed  were  not  many,  but  these  were  become  intolera- 
ble. She  tried  walking,  tried  reading,  even  resorted 
to  the  conversation  of  Mrs.  Quincy  and  the  servants, 
but  these  diversions  were  superficial.  She  was  wrought 
to  a  condition  of  morbid  intensity  which  kept  her  mov- 
ing from  one  thing  to  another. 

At  the  theatre  there  was  no  time  for  social  acquaint- 
ance. Mrs.  Burbridge,  nearly  sixty,  large,  inflated,  ter- 
ribly disillusionized  by  horrible  matrimonial  and  bitter 
stage  experiences,  shared  a  dressing  room  with  Laura. 
Mrs.  Burbridge 's  roles  always  were  long  and  she  never 
appeared  until  the  sixtieth  minute  and  was  the  first  to 
leave,  donning  her  street  costume  hastily.  It  was 
merely  "Good  evening,  my  dear;  good  night,  my  dear." 
The  others  she  saw  in  scene  or  in  and  out  of  the  stage 
door.  Her  part  in  "A  Celebrated  Case,"  a  harrowing 
French  melodrama,  ruthlessly  drew  on  her  vitality. 
The  play  was  down  for  a  fortnight  and  one  afternoon 
in  the  middle  of  the  second  week  she  felt  so  exhausted 
that  she  decided  to  skimp  the  role  for  one  performance 
that  she  might  save  herself  for  the  evening.  The  conse- 
quence was  faint,  damning  applause.  After  the  cur- 
tain the  stage  manager  looked  at  her  with  a  wonder- 
ing air.  Edelstein  came  on,  and  although  he  said  noth- 
ing, his  manner  showed  displeasure.  She  went  home 
mortified  and  dispirited.  In  the  evening,  to  make 
amends,  she  summoned  all  her  energy  and  distributed 
it  through  the  five  acts  of  the  coarse,  consuming  play. 
At  the  end  the  call  boy  handed  her  a  part  with  a  type- 
written circular.  She  was  notified  to  be  ready  for  re- 
hearsal at  nine  o'clock  Sunday  morning.  The  drama 
was  "The  Two  Orphans"— her  role  was  Louisa— a 
racking,  agonizing  piece  of  carpentry  by  the  builders 
of  "A  Celebrated  Case." 

Laura  stiffened  when  she  read  the  note.  So  she  was 
to  have  no  rest!  Glancing  over  the  part  a  wave  of 
despair  overcame  her ;  it  was  even  longer  than  the  char- 
acter she  was  doing.  She  dragged  herslf  to  the  car 
quite  undone.  Her  limbs  ached,  her  head  ached— right 
above  the  nose  there  was  a  dull,  blinding,  insistent  pain. 


166  FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES-AND  DASHES. 

In  her  room  she  flung  herself  upon  the  bed  without  dis- 
robing and  wept  for  sheer  nervousness.  She  sobbed 
to  unconsciousness.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  Mrs. 
Quincy  knocked  to  ask  if  Laura  intended  to  go  without 
her  breakfast.  Still  half  asleep  Laura  opened  the  door. 
Her  first  complete  idea  was  of  the  new  part  and  the 
dread  thought  aroused  her.  The  gnawing  torment 
above  the  nose  had  subsided  but  not  disappeared.  She 
seized  the  new  role  directly  she  was  robed,  and  the 
nervous  headache  returned  in  full  intensity.  Soon  she 
could  scarce  distinguish  the  letters  on  the  page.  She 
dropped  the  typewritten  sheets  and  went  across  the 
wiay  for  breakfast.  A  bite  or  two  of  a  roll,  a  sip  of 
coffee  and  she  stopped.  She  had  no  appetite.  That 
pressing  pain  in  the  lower  part  of  the  brow  reasserted 
itself.  It  became  acute.  Coming  back  she  met  Mrs. 
Quincy  in  the  lower  hall,  who  asked  her  what  was  the 
matter?  "You  are  so  white."  In  mingled  feelings 
of  despair  and  exasperation  she  cried:  "I  won't  stand 
it;  I  can't  stand  it.  It's  an  imposition,  an  outrage. 
And  then  she  told  her  experience. 

"Just  send  those  fellows  word — I'll  send  Maggie 
down  with  a  note— that  you  are  sick  and  can't  play 
to-day  and  to-night.  That'll  teach  them  to  give  you 
a  rest  once  in  awhile." 

Words  to  that  effect  were  sent  to  Edelstein  and  the 
next  day  as  Laura  was  about  to  start  for  the  matinee 
performance,  a  messenger  brought  a  note  from  Mr. 
Edelstein 's  secretary,  saying  that  the  management  was 
sorry  to  hear  of  Miss  Darnby  's  indisposition ;  but  Miss 
Darnby  must  not  permit  the  worry  of  involuntary  de- 
fection to  retard  her  convalescence,  for  the  manage- 
ment would  strive  to  give  as  many  and  as  good  perform- 
ances «as  before,  though  they  would  not  have  Miss 
Darnby 's  invaluable  collaboration.  Miss  Darnby,  there- 
fore, was  advised  not  to  make  her  appearance  until  she 
was  positive  that  she  could  appear  at  least  four  consecu- 
tive weeks  without  complaint.  The  management  sug- 
gested several  months'  rest;  in  fact,  the  longer  Miss 
Darnby  refrained  from  appearing  at  the  National  Thea- 
;tre  tlie  better  the  management  would  be  pleased.  In 


FOOTLIGHT  FLASHES- AND  DASHES.  167 

conclusion  the  management  esteemed  it  a  privilege  to 
bestow  a  gift  of  a  fortnight's  salary  on  Miss  Darnby. 

The  ironical,  peremptory  dismissal  agitated  Laura 
for  a  few  minutes.  Then  came  anger  and  indignation, 
followed  by  the  hurting  sense  of  mysterious  persecu- 
tion. It  seemed  clear  to  her  that  she  had  incurred  the 
implacable  ill  will  of  some  one  whose  influence  was  wide 
and  thorough.  Though  'her  thoughts  were  absorbed  by 
her  part  the  two  first  days  of  her  engagement,  she  now 
remembered  that  scattered  and  very  brief  notices  were 
printed  about  her  appearance  at  the  National.  True, 
this  house  was  a  secondary  consideration  with  the  re- 
viewers. An  assistant  to  the  critic  or  a  good  reporter 
was  told  off  to  write  a  paragraph  or  two  whenever  the 
bill  was  changed,  and  this  was  tagged  on  to  the  more 
important  reviews ;  but  in  her  instance  only  two  notices 
were  given  of  her  work  at  the  National;  these — very 
brief — were  published  by  the  journals  that  had  bravely 
praised  her  performance  with  the  Marshall  Company. 

Mrs.  Quincy  was  more  agitated  than  Laura  herself, 
for  had  she  not  advised  her  lodger  to  take  the  course 
which  had  led  to  Laura's  discharge ?  But  she  did  every- 
thing to  make  amends.  Laura  need  be  in  no  haste  to 
seek  another  engagement;  Laura  must  regard  Mrs. 
Quincy  as  a  mother  who  would  take  care  of  her  indefi- 
nitely, and  so  on ;  all  of  which  did  not  check  the  ever- 
increasing  anxiety  on  Laura's  part.  Neither  did  a 
note  from  Ross— two  days  later— comfort  her;  it  was 
the  inevitable  invitation,  phrased  more  urgently,  to 
come  to  the  Waldborough.  Carr  and  Protony  were 
gone  and  if  she  objected  to  anyone  else  his  or  her  room 
would  be  asked  for.  She  again  thanked  him  but  de- 
clined to  accept.  As  she  sealed  the  reply  she  wondered 
what  had  become  of  Protony.  That  evening,  in  look- 
ing over  the  Snippet  items  of  the  theatre  in  an  after- 
noon paper  her  indifferent  curiosity  was  satisfied;  he 
was  assisting  in  the  staging  of  the  extravaganza,  "Ori- 
ental Nights,"  at  the  Victory  Theatre. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  TUBBULENT  REHEABSAL. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Laura  was  requested  to  call 
upon  Mr.  Bolton,  the  proprietor,  director  and  manager 
of  the  Victory  Theatre.  The  request  at  once  suggested 
to  her  the  relation  between  a  prospective  engagement 
and  Protony.  But  she  could  not  see  herself  in  such 
a  production.  She  had  always  supposed  that  extrava- 
ganza was  merely  synthetic  for  prize  animal  women 
obviously  on  exhibition,  rococo  costumes,  garish  scen- 
ery, heady  music  and  an  imbecile  libretto.  The  thea- 
tre's exterior  announced  its  character;  the  architect- 
ure gaudy  and  insolent,  bastard  byzantine,  brazen  in 
posture,  impudent  in  contour  and  barbariously  ornate. 
The  ante-room  to  the  manager's  office  was  the  begin- 
ning, inside,  of  a  continuation  of  what  was  outside, 
though  its  gildings  and  furnishings  were  meant  to  be 
imposing,  especially  the  full-length  portrait— aggress- 
ively vulgar — of  the  manager.  Many  women— no  men 
—were  awaiting  an  audience  with  Mr.  Bolton.  It  was 
clear  that  they  nearly  all  were  experienced  chorus  girls. 
A  few  youthful  faces  that  had  never  been  painted  and 
powdered  looked  timid  among  the  bold  and  set,  hard- 
'feartured  countenances.  The  boy  in  uniform  at  the  door 
had  just  taken  Laura's  card  when  a  well  fed,  rather 
handsome  fellow,  of  a  Jewish  type,  came  out,  his  head 
high,  his  air  important,  as  though  he  had  just  termin- 
ated negotiations  of  tremendous  importance.  His  im- 
pressive bearing  did  not,  however,  impose  upon  half 
a  dozen  of  the  waiting  women  who  surrounded  him 
instantly,  and  Laura  could  hear  such  endearing  appel- 
lations as  "my  dear"  and  "pet"  pass  between  them. 
Finally  the  handsome  fellow,  as  if  to  release  himself 

(108) 


A  TURBULENT  REHEARSAL.  169 

and  inform  everybody  in  the  room  at  the  same  time, 
said  in  a  loud  voice:  "It  will  be  impossible  for  Mr. 
Bolton  to  see  anybody  for  sometime.  He  is  in  confer- 
ence with  Monsieur  De  Bargy,  of  the  Chatelet  Theatre 
of  Paris." 

He  was  mistaken.  Hardly  was  the  announcement 
made  when  another  boy  in  uniform  dashed  out  and 
called  "Miss  Darnby."  None  had  noticed  Laura,  so 
When  she  rose  all  eyes  darted  at  her— darts  of  surprise, 
of  envy,  of  curiosity,  but  not  of  disdain.  A  mass  of  fat 
relieved  by  black  side  whiskers  slowly  got  up  from  the 
ohair  in  which  it  had  been  lolling;  a  very  dicommod- 
ing  proceeding  that  denoted  consideration  for  his  vis- 
itor. 

' '  Miss  Darnby,  I  am  happy  to  see  you. ' '   Be  seated. ' ' 

The  voice  also  was  fat,  but  the  big  bituminous  eyes 
were  alert  and  incisive  as  they  appraised  the  caller.  Mr. 
Bolton  at  once  said  that  she  had  been  recommended 
to  him  by  Mr.  Protony.  Here  he  interjected  a  paren- 
thesis :  The  production  of  the  ' '  Oriental  Nights ' '  would 
be  the  most  expensive  and  elaborate  in  the  history  of 
American  extravaganza.  Then  he  straightway  offered 
Laura  the  part  of  Princess  Chali.  He  explained  quickly 
that  it  was  a  costume  role ;  the  gowns  to  be  worn  were 
high  in  the  neck  and  trailing ;  very  rich,  of  course,  but 
"complete."  The  character  called  for  considerable  dia- 
logue and  two  solos,  but  it  would  not  ask  much  action. 
"You  can  sing  a  bit,  I  presume"— Laura  nodded  assent- 
ingly— "but  I  was  about  to  say  if  you  can't  we  could 
soon  manufacture  a  voice  for  you  good  enough  for  the 
music  that  Declaven  has  written.  The  work  will  be 
easy— this  encouragingly— and  there  are  no  matinees 
except  on  Saturday — this  was  significantly  emphasized. 
And  that  decided  her  even  before  she  heard  the  salary 
of  forty  dollars  a  week.  Bolton  gave  her  a  typewritten 
pamphlet  with  the  notice  that  rehearsal's  would  begin 
Monday  of  next  week — the  day  was  Thursday. 

As  she  crossed  the  waiting  room  the  boy  announced : 
"Mr.  Bolton  can  see  no  more  visitors  to-day."  A  feeling 
of  compaesionshot  through  Laura  in  catching  the  shadow 
of  disappointment  that  fell  upon  the  faces  of  the  wait- 


170  A  TUEBULENT  REHEARSAL. 

ing  women,  and  the  painful  commiseration  was  with  her 
until  she  dismissed  it  resolutely  in  the  evening,  when 
she  applied  her  thoughts  to1 'Princess  Chali."  She  found 
the  lines  difficult  to  memorize.  The  words  were  simple, 
the  sentences  plain,  but  the  book  was  destitute  of  sense, 
of  coherence,  of  intelligence.  The  two  musical  numbers 
were  equally  senseless— jingles  without  point  or  mean- 
ing—and the  score  was  an  evil  echo  of  everybody  from 
Strauss  to  Offenbach.  But  she  had  plenty  of  time  to 
coax  the  vaporous  imbecilities  into  her  head.  She 
found  at  the  first  rehearsal  that  her  part  was  less  sig- 
nificant than  even  the  typewritten  copy  indicated.  Its 
insignificance  was  made  apparent  by  the  time  and  care 
devoted  to  the  mounting  and  to  the  chorus.  These  were 
everything ;  the  lines  nothing.  The  latter  began  to  be  cut 
at  the  first  rehearsal.  "Protony,  too  much  talk;  slash 
it,  slash  it."  Max  Sigman,  to  whom  Protony  was  an 
assitant,  gave  the  orders.  Protony  took  the  various 
parts  and  ran  a  pencil  across  the  pages.  He  displayed 
no  energy  or  enthusiasm  in  the  proceeding.  He  stood 
in  a  wing,  occasionally  interrupting  the  principals  with 
a  suggestion.  With  the  drill  and  grouping  of  the 
chorus,  with  the  marches  and  pictures,  he  had  nothing 
to  do.  He  corrected  the  reading  of  a  line,  the  enuncia- 
tion of  a  phrase,  the  pronunciation  of  a  word— these 
players  needed  such  corrections,  particularly  as  to  some 
words  whose  syllables  they  emphasized  in  defiance  of 
cultivation  and  scholarship.  The  failure  of  "Robes- 
pierre," however,  appeared  not  to  have  impaired  his 
confidence  or  disturbed  his  poise.  He  was  perfectly 
self-possessed,  giving  hints,  from  his  secondary  posi- 
tion, distantly  and  in  a  coldly  dignified  way  as  if  he 
merely  were  an  onlooker  who  had  had  experience  in 
such  things  and  had  chanced  in  whilst  the  rehearsal 
was  on,  and  had  been  invited  by  the  management  to 
make  a  few  recommendations.  But  to  Laura's  intui- 
tive eye  he  was  not  the  passive  person  he  looked.  Back 
of  his  formal  bow  of  greeting,  when  they  met,  she 
divined  an  emotion  and  throughout  the  four  hours 
she  was  on  the  stage  she  felt  rather  than  saw  his 
furtive  glances,  especially  when  she  stood  beside  him, 


A  TUEBULENT  REHEARSAL.         171 

awaiting  the  excisions  ordered  in  her  copy;  her  fine 
observation  caught  the  ebb  and  tide  of  his  perturba- 
tion; his  hand  trembled  a  little  and  the  "Thank  you" 
—the  erasure  made— had  a  tremulous  note.  Twice  he 
was  about  to  say  something,  but  the  chorus,  at  a  signal 
from  Declaven,  intoned  one  of  the  numbers  of  the  score 
and  hushed  Protony's  intentions. 

After  the  third  march  came  Laura 's  first  song.  She 
faced  the  composer,  whose  ribbon-counter  countenance 
was  supported  by  a  long  thick  neck,  through  which 
there  issued  a  cackling,  Yankee  voice.  She  sang  the 
number  to  Declaven 's  satisfaction.  He  was  easily  sat- 
isfied. He  did  not  mind  a  disparity  in  tone  between 
the  chorus  and  orchestra;  a  difference  in  tempo  be- 
tween these  bodies  gave  his  musical  conscience  no  more 
concern  than  the  absolutely  unacknowledged  loans 
which  he  made  from  French  and  German  masters. 
After  the  rehearsal,  on  the  way  out,  Laura  heard  a 
musician  say  to  a  companion,  evidently  discussing  De- 
claven: "Venn  he  rob,  vatt  for  he  rob  zo  he  vont  not 
pe  fount  ouid?  De  vay  to  rob  ees  to  rob  zo  goot  dat 
you  keel  de  feller  vatt  you  rob.  Dees  feller  youst  take 
someding  und  run  away  mit  it.  Efrey  potty  fint  him 
out  dat  vay." 

Laura  had  heard  only  few  opera  bouffe  composi- 
tions, but  even  to  her  the  score  rehearsed  that  day  had 
a  familiar  ring.  She  recalled  one  air,  with  its  deli- 
cate, graceful  orchestration,  which  was  tellingly  remin- 
iscent of  an  operetta  heard  in  Chicago.  But  Declaven 
looked  wholly  unconscious  of  these  conscious  assimilla- 
tions.  He  was  genial,  kindly,  unpretentious.  The  next 
day— at  the  second  rehearsal— he  brought  his  wife — 
a  tall,  dignified  lady  with  learned  airs— on  the  stage 
and  introduced  her  to  Laura.  He  was,  indeed,  cordial 
with  everyone— t'he  easy,  jovial  manner  of  a  man  who 
has  taken  things  easily,  who  has  accepted  success  as 
he  found  it.  Conversely,  Harry  Carpenter,  the  libret- 
tist, made  difficulties.  The  ordinary,  immobile  face 
with  its  anaemic  mustache  and  Indian  nose  would  con- 
tract disagreeably  whenever  the  empty  words  were  de- 
livered carelessly.  There  were  many  stops.  At  last, 


172  A  TUBBULENT  KEHEAKSAL. 

in  the  second  act  of  the  third  rehearsal,  Max  Sigmau 
exploded:  "Carpenter,  this  won't  do.  At  this  pace 
we  '11  be  ready  for  the  first  performance  about  the  year 
of  the  resurrection." 

Carpenter  reddened  and  retorted:  "I  should  think 
you  and  your  kind  who  are  sometimes  accused  of  cruci- 
fying Him  would  feel  uncomfortable  in  thinking  of  the 
resurrection. ' ' 

Max's  heat  instantly  cooled.  He  lifted  his  Hebraic 
head  and  gave  Carpenter  a  look  of  admiration  through 
a  pair  of  glistening  spectacles.  "Now  that's  good; 
it's  better  than  anything  you've  got  in  your  book, 
which,  my  dear  boy,  is  hopelessly  idiotic." 

Carpenter  turned  from  red  to  white.  The  insult, 
calmly  uttered,  made  everybody  mute— the  hush  that 
precedes  a  catastrophe.  For  several  seconds  Carpenter 
seemed  too  hard  hit  to  utter  a  rejoinder.  Then  he  stam- 
mered :  ' '  Idiot  yourself,  you  cur ! ' ' 

The  smile  on  Sigman's  face  broadened  and  his  air 
of  pretended  admiration  deepened :  "Good!  Good!  I 
always  said  you  were  a  good  actor — off  the  stage. 
When  you  were  carrying  a  spear  in  a  leg  show  in  Chi- 
cago I  said  you'd  make  your  mark  some  day  in  tragedy. 
And  when  I  saw  you  holding  Lawrence  Barrett's  robe 
in  "Richelieu"  I  was  sure  you'd  make  a  good  farce 
comedian.  You  were  always  a  fine  contradiction.  Why 
don't  you  drop  this  sort  of  work  and  write  a  tragedy?" 

"I'll  drop  you  in  a  few  minutes,  you  impudent 
monkey. ' ' 

"Yes?  About  the  same  time  the  public  drops 
you?"  This  as  Carpenter  dropped  the  book  on  the 
table  and  was  walking  toward  the  manager's  office. 
While  he  was  still  in  hearing  Sigman  called:  "Mr. 
Protony!  Be  so  good  as  to  take  Mr.  Carpenter's 
part.  And  as  you  go  along  try  to  make  the  lines  less 
idiotic." 

There  was  another  scene  within  the  scene  when  Pro- 
tony  suggested  an  elision  of  the  lines  that  fell  to  the 
comedian,  Gharlie  Rookshaw:  "I  won't  have  it,"  Rook- 
shaw  objected.  "There's  nothing  in  the  part  as  it  is. 
I'm  the  favorite  in  this  company.  The  public  wants 


A  TUEBULENT  EEHEAESAL.  ITS 

as  much  of  me  as  it  can  get  and  I  won't  be  cut  out  this 
way." 

"But,  my  dear  'boy,  the  lines  don't  mean  anything. 
They  don't  carry  anything  forward  and  there  isn't  a 
hand  in  it  for  you,"  Max  explained.  Rookshaw  didn't 
care  about  that.  He  wanted  the  lines  and  wouldn't  be 
done  out  of  them.  Max  called  Rookshaw  mulish.  Rook- 
shaw retorted  that  he  might  be  mulish  but  that  he 
wasn't  an  East  side  junk  man.  Max  stepped  toward 
the  comedian  menacingly  and  ordered  him  off  the 
stage.  Protony  interceded;  there  was  no  sense  in  two 
gentlemen  forgetting  themselves.  Let  them  understand 
each  other.  Max,  he  could  see  from  the  stage  manager's 
standpoint,  was  right  in  eliminating  ineffective  lines; 
yet  Rookshaw,  he  could  also  understand,  did  not  care 
to  have  his  part  curtailed.  Why  not  compromise?  Cut 
out  the  speech  and  let  Rookshaw  substitute  something 
of  his  own,  no  matter  what— some  business  or  some 
gags  of  his  own  invention.  For  instance — 

Here  Bolton  appeared.  His  jaw  hung,  his  eyes  were 
set.  The  company  knew  the  meaning  of  that  expres- 
sion—there was  a  dead  pause.  Even  Max's  anger 
cooled  at  sight  of  the  manager,  who,  before  he  spoke, 
was  joined  by  Carpenter.  He  turned  on  Max  and  de- 
manded an  explanation.  Max  started  to  explain  the 
necessity  of  brighter  lines,  of  curtailments,  but  Car- 
penter and  Rookshaw  interrupted  him  simultaneously, 
and  as  they  tried  to  vitiate  his  defense,  he  in  turn 
interrupted  them.  Presently  they  were  all  talking  to- 
gether in  keyed  voices  and  this  excited  babble  was 
re-enforced  by  titters  and  low  laughter  from  the  prin- 
cipals and  the  chorus.  Bolton  was  mute  for  a  few  min- 
untes  only.  He  struck  Max's  table,  paced  down  front 
and  shouted:  "Shut  up!  Shut  up,  all  of  you!  If 
there's  another  row  like  this  I'll  fine  every  one  of  you 
and  shut  up  shop.  Sigman,  'how  long  does  this  thing 
play?" 

"Nearly  four  hours." 

"Then  cut  it.  Carpenter,  we  can't  stay  here  every 
night  until  after  twelve  to  listen  to  your  dialogue." 


174  A  TUEBULENT  EEHEAESAL. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  cutting  some  of  the 
music  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  have  a  little  sense.  You  might  as  well  ask  me 
to  hide  the  shapes  of  some  of  these  fine  girls.  You 
ought  to  know  that  in  a  show  like  this  there's  never 
too  much  leg  or  too  much  music.  And  you,  Rookshaw, 
have  no  kick  coming.  You  can  throw  in  a  few  more 
gags.  We've  got  to  have  three  good  waits  of  ten 
minutes  each.  The  bar  must  have  a  chance  to  make 
some  money." 

The  last  exigency  provoked  a  smile  from  Declaven; 
but  Carpenter  turned  an  unhealthy  color.  "I  didn't 
know,"  he  muttered,  "that  I  was  writing  plays  to  suit 
the  necessity  of  a  gin  mill." 

The  ' '  gin  mill ' '  inflamed  Bolton.  He  turned  on  Car- 
penter brutally:  "Plays?  Plays?  You  write  plays? 
My  God,  man,  who  ever  told  you  that  you  write  plays? 
You  spin  out  a  few  cheap  lines  about  fairy  tales  that 
are  as  old  as  civilization.  We  could  take  these  kinder- 
garten stories  and  let  the  company  fill  in  the  speeches 
themselves  and  the  audience  wouldn't  care  about  or 
know  the  difference.  People  come  here  to  hear  the 
music,  to  see  legs  and  to  drink  liquor.  Say— turning 
to  Max— don't  waste  any  more  time  arguing  about  the 
book.  Make  all  the  cuts  you  want  and  that  settles  it. ' ' 

There  was  another  taunting  titter  which  seemed  to 
affect  Carpenter  more  than  Bolton 's  insults.  "It  isn't 
settled  by  any  means.  I  give  you  notice  that  I  withdraw 
my  play  and  if  you  attempt  to  produce  it  I'll  enjoin 
you."  With  this  he  started  for  the  door. 

"You  can't  enjoin  a  thing  that  doesn't  exist.  You've 
got  nothing  here.  Declaven  provides  the  music  and  I 
furnish  the  legs— there's  nothing  more." 

Protony  and  Laura  had  at  first  listened  to  the  dis- 
pute between  Sigman  and  Carpenter  with  indifference, 
for  they  were  not  unfamiliar  with  such  scenes,  but 
they  heard  the  exdhange  of  insults  between  Carpenter 
and  Bolton  with  amazement  mingled  with  a  feeling  of 
decency  grossly  wounded.  Both  had  experienced  the 
acute  disappointments  and  the  gnaws  of  poverty  which 
the  stage  sometimes  inflicts;  but  not  until  to-day  had 


A  TUEBULENT  EEHEAESAL.         175 

they  felt  a  sense  of  absolute  degradation  in  connection 
with  the  profession.  Bolton  's  shameless  and  mercenary 
view  of  the  theatre  was  as  if  he  had  forced  his  mistress 
to  expose  herself  at  a  street  corner  for  money.  In  their 
surprised  indignation  they  glanced  at  one  another  and 
the  one  sympathized  with  the  other's  sensation  of 
shame.  With  Laura,  naturally,  the  feeling  was  keener 
and  more  pervading.  On  the  way  to  Mrs.  Quincy's 
she  had  thoughts  of  renouncing  her  part;  she  had  an 
accusative  sensation  of  fostering  a  shameless  produc- 
tion, an  impression  which  she  imparted  to  the  landlady, 
after  describing  the  scenes  at  the  rehearsal. 

The  ex-actress  also  was  astonished— in  an  inverse 
manner.  What!  Give  up  an  easy  part  because  there 
had  been  a  fight  between  author  and  manager!  Why, 
how  ridiculous!  There  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
the  show  itself.  There  was  nothing  wrong  about  a  lot 
of  pretty  girls  in  tights— so  long  as  their  limbs  were 
well  formed.  Anyhow,  she— Laura— would  wear  a 
"straight"  costume.  And  any  theatre  that  attracted 
good  women  was  all  right.  It  was  ia  bad  habit— this 
in  a  low,  insinuating  tone— to  quarrel  with  one's  bread 
and  butter. 

Laura,  knowing  Mrs.  Quincy  as  she  did,  accused 
herself  of  inexcusable  futility  in  consulting  with  her 
on  points  of  professional  taste  and  delicacy.  What 
was  to  be  expected  of  a  former  vaudeville  performer 
of  the  third  class?  True,  she  had  seen  nothing  among 
the  members  of  the  company  to  make  her  squeamish. 
The  girls  were  followed  from  the  theatre,  but  thajb 
happened  to  actresses  in  the  best  of  companies.  She 
herself  had  been  coarsely  insulted  in  the  Northwest 
and  several  times  some  one  had  trailed  after  her  from 
the  National.  Analyzed  closer,  it  was  Bolton 's  loose 
idea  of  dramatic  art  that  provoked  the  ignoble  feeling. 

Apparently  Carpenter  had  less  professional  pride 
than  Protony  and  a  much  lower  view  of  the  theatre 
than  Laura,  for  he  appeared  the  next  day  unruffled, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Everybody  was  cordial 
and  the  rehearsal  began  in  perfect  harmony.  But  dis- 
cord broke  out  anew  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  and 


176         A  TURBULENT  REHEARSAL. 

increased  in  intensity  as  the  rehearsal  proceeded.  The 
row  again  was  between  Sigman  .and  Carpenter.  Sig- 
man  was  for  more  cuts;  Carpenter  protested  vigor- 
ously. Bolton  appeared  and  told  Sigman  to  "slash 
away  until  you  get  this  d—  thing  right." 

"All  right,"  returned  Carpenter  in  burning  dudg- 
eon, as  he  took  his  coat  to  go,  "but  if  this  d —  thing, 
as  you  elegantly  term  it,  is  roasted  to  the  last  turn 
it  will  not  be  my  fault." 

"If  this  d —  thing,  as  I  call  it,  is  a  go,  it  will  not 
be  because  you've  had  a  hand  in  it,"  retorted  Bolton 
curtly. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  PATBON  OF  AET. 

The  anathematized  extravaganza  was  proclaimed  a 
success.  The  more  serious  reviewers  of  the  theatre 
either  sent  a  sub-editor  or  commended  the  production 
in  easy,  negligent  phrases  which  meant  that  the  per- 
formance was  a  good  thing  for  that  sort  of  thing— a 
thing  of  fleeting  diversion.  The  weekly  periodicals 
given  to  sports  and  kindred  amusements  were  several 
degrees  higher  in  enthusiasm  than  the  dailies.  There 
was  one  exception  and  this  deviation  from  unanimity 
made  a  row  the  afternoon  "The  Spirit  of  Sport"  came 
out. 

"Bringle"  (the  press  agent),  "why  in  hell  didn't 
you  see  Hammond?"  Bolton  interrogated  shoutingly. 
"  'The  Spirit  of  Sport'  hasn't  even  got  our  ad." 

"Hammond  wasn't  in,  but  I  thought  I  left  a  big 
ad  with  them,"  murmured  the  agent  dejectedly,  of  a 
sudden  conscious  that  he  had  overlooked  that  publi- 
cation. 

"Well,  you've  got  another  think  coming.  Go  over 
right  away.  Tell  Hammond  we've  made  cuts  and 
changes.  That  '11  give  him  a  chance  to  revise  his  views. 
Take  half  a  dozen  good  seats  with  you." 

From  the  moment  he  had  detained  two  women  at 
the  entrance  on  the  opening  night  (holding  them  on 
a  pretext  until  a  man  entered,  for  it  was  his  supersti- 
tion that  a  dead-head  or  a  woman  first  in  the  house  on 
an  opening  night  argued  failure)  until  well  into  the 
week,  Bolton  was  spreading  sail  to  the  favorable  wind 
that  invited  a  big  pecuniary  success.  He  advertised 
the  press  encomiums  broadly ;  he  sent  tickets  for  well- 
placed  seats  to  popular  clubmen  and  talked-of  rounders. 
In  the  piece  itself  he  took  out  something  here  and  put 

(H!) 


178  A  PATRON  OP  ART. 

in  something  there;  a  negro  melody  was  interpolated 
with  Declaven's  cheerful  assent;  he  suggested  current 
gags  and  new  business  to  the  comedians;  he  replaced 
members  of  the  female  chorus  whose  manner  and  phy- 
sical attraction  had  proved  inconspicuous  by  women 
of  aggressive  and  flamboyant  beauty.  His  energy  and 
resourcefulness  elicited  the  wonder  of  Protony,  who, 
at  the  end  of  the  production  week,  came  to  Laura 
with  the  idea  of  making  his  astonishment  the  loop  for 
a  rapprochement: 

"Bolton  is  an  extraordinary  fellow,  after  all,  don't 
you  think  so  ? "  He  neither  prefixed  nor  affixed  Laura 
or  Miss  Laura  or  Miss  Darnby. 

"He  is  extraordinary  in  a  certain  sense."  Her 
tone  was  cool,  her  manner  caustic ;  she  turned  from  him 
as  she  spoke.  Protony  was  unfortunate  in  the  time  and 
the  subject  chosen  for  a  tentative  reconciliation.  Bol- 
tora  had  only  a  few  days  before  proposed  to  Laura 
another  custome,  a  glittering  gown  beginning  at  the 
low  line  of  the  bosom;  corset  tight  at  the  waist  and 
with  a  wide  rift  starting  at  the  hips,  on  either  side. 
Beneath  this  open  skirt  nothing  but  a  pair  of  pink 
fleshlings.  She  had  peremptorily  refused.  He  became 
persuasive.  He  reminded  her  that  with  the  exception 
of  Mrs.  Olive,  once  the  old  woman  of  Daly's  company, 
who  now  played  a  comic  part  and  whose  age  and  figure 
precluded  fleshlings,  all  the  "girls"  were  in  tights. 
And  the  costume  he  proposed  was  a  delicate  compro- 
mise; it  would  add  piquancy  to  the  role  without  im- 
pairing her  professional  dignity.  Why,  all  the  stars 
who  play  "Rosalind"  expose  themselves  far  more  than 
would  the  Princess  Chali.  He  added  a  material  consid- 
eration to  his  plea;  he  would  make  her  salary  fifty 
dollars.  He  concluded  with  a  dose  of  what  he  con- 
sidered subtle  flattery ;  her  person  had  captivated  troops 
of  men  about  town  who  had  fairly  demanded  that  she 
heighten  their  pleasure  by  according  a  less  veiled  view 
of  her  charms. 

Although  innately  modest,  Laura's  experience  of  the 
world,  especially  of  the  theatrical  world,  had  taught  her 


A  PATRON  OF  ART.  179 

the  difference  between  genuine  modesty  and  false 
shame;  her  ready  insight  had  told  her  that  handsome 
women  were  the  loadstone  of  the  stage— valuable  gems 
which  the  manager  must  display  attractively.  She 
recognized  that  Bolton's  view  was  strictly  one  of  busi- 
ness. Therefore,  after  mature  deliberation,  she  herself 
proposed  a  compromise  gown ;  open  laterally,  from  the 
knee  down  displaying  purple  hose— this  hue  to  escape 
conventionality,  pink  being  too  general.  Bolton  enum- 
erated the  anatomical  concessions ;  bosom,  arms,  ankles, 
calves.  Very  well,  he  was  content,  but  the  salary  would 
be  forty-five  dollars  instead  of  the  full  fifty,  offered 
for  a  more  luxurious  revelation. 

It  was  a  bizarre  dress,  a  strange  mingling  of  old 
Spanish  and  Byzantine;  ink  black  with  slight  streaks 
of  yellow,  the  relieving  hue  modulated  by  dark,  cling- 
ing laces.  The  drapery,  though  it  covered,  did  not 
conceal  Laura's  form.  Her  contours  undulated  visibly 
beneath  the  somber-colored  but  withal  gay  costume,  so 
singularly  in  harmony  with  her  brunette  beauty.  She 
presented  a  vivid  contrast  to  the  blond  banality  of  the 
other  women  in  their  conventional  crimson  fleshlings, 
their  automatic  movements,  their  stilted  gestures,  their 
mechanical  voices,  their  cattle-like  gregariousness, 
their  artistic  imbecility.  In  a  glance,  it  was  manifest 
that  Laura  was  physically,  artistically,  temperament- 
ally different  from  all  in  the  gorgeous  though  garish 
picture.  Her  increased  saliency  drew  a  large  corres- 
pondence of  a  meretricious  kind.  They  who  had  written 
before  wrote  again,  some  more  humbly,  others  less 
flippantly,  others  again  more  importunately.  Most 
all  of  the  correspondence  was  infused  with  peculiar 
importunity.  They  implored  an  immediate  audience. 
One  fellow  in  a  vein  of  laconic  cynicism  wrote: 
"Where?  When?  How  much?"  and  boldly  signed  his 
name  and  address.  Among  the  mass  of  scented  letters 
was  one  from  Ross.  He  congratulated  her  upon  her — 
success  he  called  it.  In  a  postscript— which  Laura  per- 
ceived lucidly  was  really  the  purport  of  the  communi- 
cation—he  asked :  "  Are  you  ever  at  home ?  I've  called 
several  times  but  never  find  you  in— or,  at  least,  Mrs. 


180  A  PATRON  OF  AET. 

Quincy  says  you  are  not  there.  Why  live  in  such  a 
barrack  when  you  may  have  superior  accommodations 
at  one  of  my  hotels  at  the  same  rate  you  pay  on  42nd 
Street?  Come,  let  us  take  care  of  you." 

On  another  day,  in  the  same  conditions,  the  solicita- 
tion had  tempted  her — for  the  first  time  Ross  had  the 
tact  to  ask  a  monetary  consideration.  "But  coming  in 
the  same  mail  with  the  heap  of  amatory  letters  his 
invitation  was  confounded  with  the  rest— she  feared 
it  contained  an  analagous  motive. 

She  felt  the  difference  in  her  professional  position, 
once  the  communications  were  in  a  shredded  pile  in 
the  basket.  Whilst  in  other  performances  she  had  re- 
ceived a  salacious  letter  now  and  again,  the  more  part 
in  the  past  contained  pure  and  disinterested  compli- 
ments, many  from  women.  The  difference  was  in  deeper 
contrast  a  few  days  later  when  Mrs.  Hopper  appeared, 
— not  at  Mrs.  Quincy 's,  but  on  the  stage,  during  the  per- 
formance. One-half  of  the  people  on  the  boards  knew 
her  either  intimately  or  distantly.  Those  who  had  no 
personal  acquaintance  glanced  at  her  with  something 
like  awe,  especially  the  back  line  chorus  girls  whose 
physical  flaws  relegated  them  to  the  inconspicuous  row. 
These  put  themselves  in  her  view  as  she  passed  from 
wing  to  wing,  vaguely  hoping  that  she  would  con- 
descend to  look  them  over.  Her  gaze  was  not  once 
focused  upon  any  one  of  the  indifferently  formed  girls, 
She  exchanged  a  few  familiar  remarks  with  Bolton, 
was  greeted  cordially  by  the  stage  manager  and  nodded 
pleasantly  to  the  male  cast.  But  with  the  women  she 
had  various  -and  incisive  degrees  of  salutation.  She 
bowed  deeply  and  deferentially  to  Laura,  who  barely 
acknowledged  the  silently  respectful  greeting;  one 
of  two  handsome  girls  she  kissed,  with  the  other  she 
shook  hands  and  made  a  remark  that  brought  a  laugh 
from  both.  She  complimented  several,  smiled  on  some. 
With  a  few  she  spoke  briefly  and  formally.  Upon  two 
she  frowned,  after  uttering  a  high  and  dry  "How  do 
you  do?"  Three  girls  she  cut  decisively,  refusing  to 
pass  the  conventionalities  of  the  day  with  them.  At 
the  drop  of  the  last  curtain  many  of  the  coryphees 


A  PATRON  OF  ART.  181 

lingered  in  the  wings;  and  while  talking  they  had 
glanced  furtively  toward  Mrs.  Hopper. 

Mrs.  Hopper  was  now  occupied.  To  the  chorister 
she  had  kissed  she  whispered  a  few  sentences.  The  girl 
assented  with  a  nod.  Her  companion  was  given  a  thin, 
narrow  card.  She  looked  at  it  and  nodded.  Mrs. 
Hopper  then  approached  a  figurante  who  stood,  appar- 
ently waiting,  near  Laura.  The  woman  said  something 
in  a  very  low  tone.  Laura  heard  the  emphatic  answer : 
"No,  no;  I  will  not." 

There  were  certain  of  the  ensemble  with  whom 
Mrs.  Hopper  did  not  speak,  the  more  part  of  them 
were  amongst  the  most  attractive;  but  they  were  dis- 
tinctive in  their  mien;  more  reserved,  their  counte- 
nances denoting  something  purposeful;  and  whilst 
avoiding  Hopper,  their  stealthy  glances  at  the  woman 's 
negotiations  told  of  the  ineffable  revulsion  which  a 
virtuous  woman  feels  when  she  is  an  involuntary  wit- 
ness of  iniquitous  negotiations.  Laura  perceived  the 
repellency  of  these  girls  and  instinctively  joined  them. 

"Do  you  live  at  home?"  she  asked  of  the  one  near- 
est her. 

"No.  I  live  with  Maude"— pointing  to  a  slender, 
earnest-eyed  creature — "she  lives  with  her  mother  and 
youngest  sister." 

"Have  most  of  them  homes  here?"  Sweeping  the 
detached  group  with  her  eye  as  indicative  of  her  mean- 
ing. 

"No;  they  room  in  pairs  as  a  rule  for  the  sake  of 
economy.  They  nearly  all  are  ambitious.  They  study 
hard ;  they  read  and  go  in  for  voice  culture.  We  hope 
to  do  better  some  day." 

"I  wish  you  every  success." 

Never  was  Laura  more  sincere ;  the  wish  was  given 
by  a  heart  that  felt  it  fervently  at  that  moment.  It 
was  in  her  to  embrace  the  young  women  who  evaded 
pleasure— who  were  contemptuous  of  tempting  impor- 
tunities—to pursue  a  purpose.  Compunction  seared 
her  in  reflecting  that  she  had  compromised  her  profes- 
sional position  in  making  part  of  this  extravaganza — 
she  who  had  appeared  with  Marshall,  with  Runnels; 


182  A  PATRON  OF  AET. 

had  played  in  the  legitimate  so  successfully.  She  had 
taken  a  retrograde  step,  had  placed  herself  on  the 
champagne-supper  plane  where  promiscuous  invita- 
tions were  fairly  invited.  It  was  nothing  less  than 
degrading— that  was  the  word,  degrading.  But  she 
was  resolved  to  hold  herself  aloof;  to  emulate  the 
aloofness  of  the  virtuous  group;  to  be  in  "Oriental 
Nights"  without  being  of  it  socially. 

As  performance  succeeded  performance  adhesion 
to  the  resolution  became  more  difficult  than  she  had 
thought  possible.  She  perceived  it  was  comparatively 
easy  for  a  member  of  the  chorus  to  hold  herself,  to 
be  apart,  particularly  so  if  nature  had  not  been  lavish 
with  the  bestowal  of  physical  charms.  A  mere  indica- 
tion of  a  reservation  and  she  was  ignored.  With 
Laura's  place  in  the  cast  and  her  beauty  it  was  wholly 
different.  She  must  return  greetings  and  compliments 
with  interest,  for  nothing  is  more  dangerous  to  a 
superior  or  wounding  to  an  inferior  than  for  the  former 
to  slight  the  latter.  And  then  some  one  had  said 
some  where,— at  Mrs.  Quincy 's,  in  the  theatre  or  around 
the  theatre,  she  could  not  recall — "it's  all  right  for  a 
girl  to  be  straight,  but  it  isn't  good  business  to  let 
the  town  know  it.'* 

She  could  see  that  Bolton  took  that  view  of  it.  Not 
that  he  was  a  libertine.  With  the  chance  of  the  box 
office  being  the  same  he  had  preferred  strict  morality 
in  his  theatre;  but  as  custom  had  made  burlesque  a 
synonym  for  latitudinous  sociability  the  manager  was 
partial  to  the  members  of  his  company  who  drew  the 
largest  number  of  rich  loafers.  He  had  thanked  Laura 
for  donning  the  costume  she  wore;  but  since  then  his 
manner  had  become  a  carefully  adjusted  gradation  of 
reservation.  Within  -a  fortnight  the  low  degree  of 
temperature  in  which  he  enveloped  himself  whenever 
he  saw  her  congealed  his  neck  so  that  he  could  scarcely 
bow.  He  never  spoke  as  he  passed.  She  caught  the 
cause,  which  was  quite  substantiated  by  an  imp  of  a 
call  boy— one  of  those  precocious  packages  of  humanity 
that  catch  every  whisper,  however  inarticulate,  around 
a  theatre,  that  sound  every  secret  though  never  so  well 


A  PATRON  OF  ART.  183 

guarded— who  derisively  grinned  the  significant  in- 
formation one  night  as  she  awaited  her  cue:  "Say,  I 
hear  they  are  going  to  bill  you  as  Sainte  Chali  in- 
stead of  Princess  Chali,"  Thereafter  it  was  "Sainte 
Chali"  with  him.  The  by-name  quickly  gained  cur- 
rency. One  of  the  ballet— a  big,  handsome  creature — 
bold  and  brazen— presumably  just  from  a  champagne 
luncheon,  accosted  Laura  in  a  tone  of  extravagant  rev- 
erence: "Good  evening,  Sainte  Chali,  when  were  you 
canonized?" 

Laura,  inflamed,  answered:  "When  were  you  taken 
from  the  stews?" 

The  other  raised  her  hand  as  if  to  strike ;  but  in  the 
quick  second  reflection  laughed  derisively. 

"How  did  that  insulting  reply  pop  into  my  head?" 
Laura  asked  herself  when  calmed.  She  did  not  know. 
It  surprised  her  as  much  as  her  sudden  loss  of  self- 
control.  Probably  a  bit  of  the  dirt  thrown  up  from  the 
eruptions  which  occurred  frequently  in  the  free  and 
easy  section  of  the  ballet  had  lodged  in  her  memory. 
The  quick  quarrels  which  were  as  speedily  quelled; 
the  familiarity  between  the  sexes;  the  course  jeal- 
ousies, coarsely  expressed;  the  craze  for  money;  the 
bald  adulations  of  the  men  who  possessed  it ;  the  boast 
of  the  amount  of  bills  of  the  dinners  to  which  the  chor- 
isters were  invited ;  the  low  vanities  displayed ;  the  nar- 
row selfishness,  the  sensuality  and  the  self-centered  talk 
had  generally  an  inductive  effect  upon  her.  She  never 
could  find  comfort  in  talking  with  Mrs.  Quincy.  Mrs. 
Quincy  's  ideas  did  not  even  border  on  the  ethical.  Her 
views  were  altogether  of  a  circumspect  and  material- 
istic order.  She  continued  to  admonish  Laura  with: 
"Be  careful  not  to  cheapen  yourself.  Some  day  a  rich 
man  will  want  to  marry  you."  Even  Signran  took  up 
" Sainte  Chali".  The  sobriquet  reached  the  office  of  a 
theatrical  weekly  and  the  following  Thursday  there  was 
a  long  paragraph  in  its  broad  pages.  The  allusion  was 
direct  and  unmistakable.  Though  the  perfectly  propor- 
tioned burlesquer— such  was  the  intimation  of  the  lines 
—had  never  made  herself  conspicuous  in  a  legitimate 
way  she  had  succeeded  in  making  herself  intrusive  in 


184  A  PATRON  OF  AET. 

burlesque.  She  had  made  a  striking  innovation  in  the 
hip  and  ankle  drama  by  the  introduction  of  invincible 
chastity.  As  a  reward  for  this  innovation  Bolton  had 
sanctified  her— he  had  promoted  the  princess  of  bur- 
lesque to  the  princess  of  virtue— Sainte  Chali.  The 
change  was  the  more  extraordinary  in  that  the  virtuous 
lady  had  not  thought  of  distinguishing  herself  in  such 
a  model  way  when  her  opportunity  was  more  fit  and 
much  larger,  when  she  was  a  member  of  strictly  dra- 
matic companies  where  her  distinction  consisted  of 
colorless  interpretations  of  the  author's  ideas,  of  deep- 
hued  insubordination  of  the  manager's  orders  and  of 
the  exchange  of  vivid,  social  amenities  with  some  gen- 
tleman (or  gentleman)  of  sympathetic  qualities.  De- 
spite a  strenuous  matrimonial  career  there  are  women 
who  bring  an  astonishing  quantity  and  a  surprising 
quality  of  morality  to  the  stage,  which,  however,  was 
in  danger  of  being  impaired  by  an  assistant  stage  mana- 
ger whose  devotion  had  not  diminished  by  experiences 
in  Chicago  and  by  repeated  repulsions  in  New  York. 

There  were  allusive  sentences  to  an  hotel  proprietor, 
to  a  persistent  Wall  Street  broker.  The  flaunting 
fling  struck  home.  Not  since  the  soandal-mongering 
paper  in  Chicago  had  referred  to  her  divorce  from 
Darnby  had  Laura  been  so  affected.  She  was  angered 
and  humiliated,  wounded,— depressed  and  bewildered 
by  turns.  The  periodical  came  to  her  in  the  morning. 
Toward  evening  she  was  still  so  enervated  that  she 'had 
no  heart  to  go  to  the  theatre.  But  sheer  pride  and  an 
admixture  of  woman's  nervous  energy  and  obstinacy 
urged  her  to  be  in  her  dressing  room  promptly.  Di- 
rectly she  stepped  out  to  go  to  the  wings  she  was  met 
by  the  call  boy's  shrill  voice:  "Good  evening,  Miss 
Sainte."  The  repetition  of  the  flagrant  impertinence, 
flung  in  her  face  by  the  impudent  urchin,  threw  her 
out  of  self-control.  She  went  headlong  to  Sigman. 
With  flaming  cheeks  and  uncertain  tongue  she  com- 
plained. Sigman  affected  indignation.  He  remon- 
strated with  the  lad;  but  Laura  even  in  her  temper 
detected  the  mock  tone  in  the  remonstrance.  To  the 
boy  the  tacit  sanction  of  his  impudence  was  obvious. 


A  PATEON  OF  AET.  185 

He  went  away  grinning  and  his  grin  was  repeated,  in 
varying  shades,  upon  all  faces  save  the  studious  chorus 
girls. 

Laura  struggled  with  herself  throughout  the  even- 
ing, but  her  burning  feeling,  which  was  fed  by  an 
askant  or  persifiant  glance  from  females  of  the  cast, 
and  by  cynical  smiles  from  some  of  the  men,  seemed 
uncontrollable.  Next  morning  lingering  anger  was  dis- 
placed by  elation.  The  mail  carrier  brought  her  a  long, 
narrow  manila  paper  wrapper  in  which  periodicals  are 
enclosed.  She  ran  her  fingers  through  the  covering 
listlessly.  The  Dramatic  Times  unfolded  itself  and  dis- 
played in  the  full  length  .and  breadth  of  the  first  page 
an  attractive  picture  of  Miss  Darnby  as  "Princess  Chali" 
of  the  "Oriental  Nights"  company.  Laura's  blood 
quickened  as  that  of  a  girl  who  had  been  presented 
with  a  beautiful  jewel.  It  was  an  .admirable  likeness 
which  illustrated  her  winsome  visage  and  attractive 
figure  faithfully.  Her  gratification  lowered  a  degree 
as  she  turned  the  pages  and  failed  to  find  a  biography. 
However,  the  shade  of  disappointment  in  the  seeming 
omission  passed  quickly  in  the  thought  that  the  dis- 
tinction of  having  her  portrait  in  the  Dramatic  Times 
would  bring  envy  to  the  members  of  the  "Oriental 
Nights"  company  who  had  derided  her  recently. 

Though  the  men  and  women  of  the  theatre  as  a 
whole  evidenced  no  recognition  of  having  seen  the 
weekly  journal  Laura's  fine  perception  informed  her 
that  she  was  envied  by  some  of  the  women.  One 
woman 's  question  somewhat  spoiled  her  silent  triumph ; 
the  thin  and  hard-featured  Miss  Cartout,  asked  in  a 
sarcastic  key:  "How  did  you  get  it  in?  What  did 
it  cost  you?" 

Although  Laura  retorted  quickly,  "Much  less  than 
it  cost  you  to  get  your  wrinkles,"  she  was  taken  back 
by  the  inquiry.  She  had  met  the  editor  twice  only; 
and  now  that  she  thougtht  of  it,  with  her  satisfaction 
cooled,  she  confessed  to  herself  that  she  had  done 
nothing  to  prompt  the  front-page  consideration;  knew 
nobody  in  journalism  who  admired  her  sufficiently  to 
signal  her  for  such  a  distinction. 


186  A  PATRON  OF  ART. 

The  explanation  came  next  day,  and  it  was  quite 
simple;  the  business  office  of  the  Dramatic  Times  pre- 
sented a  bill,  by  mail,  for  $50.00,  "for  insertion  of 
picture."  The  letter's  first  effect  on  Laura  was  cha- 
grined dismay;  then  contemptuous  indignation,  which 
brought  the  written  effrontery  into  the  refuse  basket 
in  a  fling.  She  dismissed  this  species  of  petty,  polite 
blackmail  from  her  mind  for  three  days,  when  it  was 
again  ushered  into  her  thoughts  by  a  second  account 
marked  at  the  top  duplicate  and  at  the  bottom,  "Please 
remit  immediately."  She  turned  the  paper  and  wrote 
in  answer:  "I  gave  you  no  order  to  publish  my 
picture.  I  owe  you  nothing."  Her  reply  was  posted  in 
the  morning.  In  the  evening,  half  an  hour  before  she 
started  for  the  theatre,  the  chambermaid  brought  in 
a  card:  "P.  S.  Sheehan,  Press  Agent."  Awaiting 
her  in  the  parlor  was  an  actor-like  head  upon  a  high, 
athletic  figure.  He  stated  frankly  and  at  once  that  he 
conducted  a  bureau  of  publicity  for  actors.  Several 
prominent  members  of  New  York  companies  were  sub- 
scribers. He  knew  everybody  connected  with  the 
theatrical  department  of  the  press  and  counted  as  a 
personal  friend  nearly  every  dramatic  critic  of  distinc- 
tion in  the  country.  These  gentlemen  or  their  assist- 
ants were  always  willing  to  print  paragraphs  relating 
to  his  clients.  Anecdotes  of  personal  interest  and  bio- 
graphical notes  in  the  gossip  column  were  far  more 
effectual  in  a  promotive  sense  than  favorable  criticisms. 
He  solicited  Laura's  subscription.  Before  committing 
herself  she  told  of  her  experience  with  the  Dramatic 
Times— told  what  answer  she  had  made.  Sheehan 's 
rich  voice  became  a  salvo  of  exclamation  points.  Good 
heavens!  No!  She  should  not  have  done  that!  Her 
course  indeed  proved  that  she  needed  some  one  to 
attend  to  her  interests.  Pay  the  amount  by  all  means 
and  at  once.  Such  class  papers  could  do  her  much 
good  or  much  harm.  If  she  did  not  meet  the  demand 
the  Dramatic  Times  would  remember  her  in  an  un- 
complimentary way  for  months  to  come.  She  must 
allow  him  to  extricate  her  from  the  difficulty.  He 
would  pay  the  bill  at  once  by  sending  his  own  cheque— 


A  PATRON  OF  ART.  187 

he  was  always  in  funds.  What  were  Sheehan's  terms? 
Oh,  they  were  not  excessive— it  was  not  necessary  to 
speak  of  that  now.  His  charges  would  be  contingent 
upon  tihe  result  of  his  services,  which  he  was  confident 
would  prove  valuable,  his  confidence  being  based 
upon  what  he  had  done  for— here,  in  low,  confidential 
tones  he  mentioned  names  of  very  high  currency  in 
the  profession.  Miss  Darnby  would  please  allow  him 
to  take  charge  of  her  affairs;  he  would  vouch  for  re- 
sults. If  the  outcome  were  not  satisfactory,  why  the 
arrangement  could  be  dissolved  by  either  party  at  any 
time.  He  became  more  persuasive  by  illustrating  the 
splendid  chances  of  constantly  increasing  celebrity  and 
the  certainty  of  a  larger  income.  Laura,  persuaded  by 
the  plausibility  of  the  scheme,  consented. 

She  awaited  eagerly  what  Sheehan  had  euphemis- 
tically termed  results.  Two  evening  papers  of  small 
circulation  and  slender  reputation— obscure  sheets 
whose  very  existence  hung  upon  the  patronage  of  cor- 
rupt politics— referred  briefly  to  the  ''Brilliant  work" 
of  Miss  Laura  Darnby  at  the  Victory.  A  morning 
mediocrity,  of  precarious  existence,  printed  a  duplicate 
of  the  Dramatic  Times'  picture.  Beneath  was  a  eulo- 
gistic record  of  Laura  Darnby  from  her  first  appear- 
ance in  New  York.  But  in  the  journals  of  standing, 
of  influence,  not  a  line.  On  Saturday  at  noon,  the  girl- 
of-all-work  brought  up  a  roll ;  it  contained  a  few  weekly 
periodicals  given  to  art  affairs.  All  were  more  or  less 
loquacious  in  praise  of  Miss  Darnby,  the  fascinating 
feature  of  "Oriental  Nights.*'  The  Dramatic  Times 
was  affectionately  panegyric.  In  this  journal  Chicago 
was  given  as  her  birthplace.  She  had  received  her 
first  dramatic  instructions  under  the  "protection"  of 
Mrs.  Gilbert,  who  had  seen  in  the  girl  a  "mine  of 
talent."  She  had  toured  with  a  number  of  "high- 
class  companies"  before  risking  her  New  York  debut, 
and  when  she  finally  appeared  with  Roland  Marshall 
her  "success  was  instantaneous."  "Hard  study  and  in- 
tensity of  interest"  in  her  profession  had  compelled 
Miss  Darnby 's  medical  adviser  to  "insist  that  she  desist 
from  work  or  play  only  light  roles."  Pursuant  thereto 


188  A  FATBON  OF  AET. 

she  consented  to  accept  Manager  Bolton's  handsome 
offer  to  appear  in  the  ' '  Oriental  Nights. ' '  In  the  read- 
ing Laura's  sensation  ranged  from  blank  amazement 
to  amusement.  She  wondered  after  scanning  the  last 
line  what  the  Dramatic  Times  had  said  had  its  bill 
remained  unpaid.  Recognizing  the  venality  of  the  arti- 
cle Laura  forgot  it  by  the  time  she  reached  the  theatre, 
but  Sigman  brought  it  back  by  the  leering  expression 
on  his  face  when  he  said  in  a  falsified  prophetic  key: 
"Ah,  Miss  Darnby,  you  are  coming  on;  splendid  no- 
tices! Splendid!" 

Laura,  catching  his  intent :  "Of  course !  Of  course ! 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  with  you  as  stage  manager." 

She  was  surprised,  however,  and  no  doubt  was  Sig- 
man, the  next  day  by  a  highly  favorable  notice  of  a 
half-  column  in  the  Evening  Wire.  Followed  to  its  root, 
it  was  an  obvious  and  a  voluminous  expression  with 
no  other  inspiration  than  that  found  in  an  agency 
whose  only  scrutable  influence  was  of  a  financial  char- 
acter. But  the  article  was  discreetly  written.  The  tone 
was  high — quite  in  keeping  with  the  general  attitude 
of  the  journal — and  the  praising  phrases  reserved; 
yet  the  effect  of  the  criticism,  whidh  seemed  to  have  a 
reconsideration  of  "Oriental  Nights"  as  a  basis  but 
which  had  Laura  for  object,  *was  one  of  discreet 
praise  of  Princess  Chali.  She  believed  Sheehan  when 
he  assured  her  that  "it  was  a  hard  job  getting  that 
in,"  but  was  bewildered  when  he  added,  "but  a  great 
admirer  of  yours  fixed  it."  He  was  smilingly  reticent 
when  she  asked  the  name  of  her  admirer:  "Never 
mind;  you  may  know  him  some  day."  And  then  he 
made  a  suggestion:  It  were  better  to  leave  Mrs. 
Quincy's  for  a  good  hotel  in  fashion.  A  first-class  ad- 
dress is  as  necessary  to  one  in  New  York  as  a  correct 
suit  or  a  handsome  gown  and  markedly  so  for  stage 
people  who  are  forging  on.  Laura  thought  of  Ross, 
of  the  importunities  she  had  rejected,  and  then  she 
realized  that  Mrs.  Quincy's  had  become  something  of 
a  home  and  Mrs.  Quincy  a  confidante,  not  an  intel- 
lectual nor  indeed  always  perspicacious,  yet  a  well-in- 
tentioned confidante ;  and  the  large  room,  once  occupied 


A  x>ATBON  OF  AET.  189 

by  two,  had  been  placed  at  her  disposal  at  a  fair  reduc- 
tion in  rent.  Everything  was  comfortable.  She  was 
a  favorite  with  the  domestics— was  popular  with  every- 
body, from  the  chambermaid  to  the  restaurateur  across 
the  way.  Finally,  she  considered  the  increased  ex- 
pense which  such  a  change  would  entail.  No,  she 
would  remain;  though  Sheehan's  demonstration  that 
she  was  sacrificing  prestige  appeared  convincing. 

Nevertheless,  his  promotive  methods  had  made  a 
radical  change  in  her  standing  at  the  theatre.  From  Bol- 
ton  down  to  the  call-boy  deference  was  now  the  atti- 
tude toward  her.  From  impish,  the  call-boy  had  been 
transformed  into  a  being  who  showed  respect  for  her. 
Sigman's  easy  familiarity  was  lost  in  his  manner  of 
polite  esteem.  Bolton  came  to  her  dressing  room  and 
thanked  her  for  the  .recognition  she  was  conferring 
upon  his  theatre.  Keen,  he  recognized  in  her  one  of 
the  rare  species  of  players  upon  whom  a  compliment 
may  be  bestowed  without  inflating  their  self-esteem 
and  the  inevitable  sequence  of  such  inflation— a  larger 
share  of  the  house's  receipts.  He  was  solicitous  of 
her  satisfaction  with  her  role  of  Princess  Chali;  would 
she  care  to  have  the  part  amplified?  Declaven  would 
be  happy  to  compose  new  numbers  and  add  them  to 
the  character.  Perhaps  the  lines  were  -too  few?  She 
had  only  to  express  a  wish  and  Carpenter  would  write 
more  epigrams.  If  she  considered  her  costume  in  the 
second  act  too  revealing  she  had  but  to  order  a  more 
modest  gown.  He  was  suave  and  consummately  con- 
siderate; completely  changed  from  the  brutal  mer- 
cenary animal  that  had  shocked  her  at  rehearsals. 
Though  Laura  estimated  his  intended  homage  at  its 
true  worth  she,  womanlike,  was  not  displeased  to 
work  in  an  environment  grown  more  congenial  to  her 
nerves.  She  thanked  him;  but  no,  everything  was 
entirely  satisfactory;  even  the  cab  which  he  thought 
she  should  have  to  and  from  the  theatre  was  declined. 
She  was  satisfied  to  come  and  go  with  one  of  the  chor- 
isters as  usual. 

The  sudden  serenity  of  her  position  was  as  sud- 
denly clouded  by  a  visit  from  Sheehan.  She  had  quite 


190  A  PATRON  OF  ART. 

forgotten  the  law  of  compensation,  but  she  was  re- 
minded of  it  with  smooth  tact  by  Sheehan :  A  banker 
who  had  done  much  for  once  obscure  but  now  estab- 
lished actresses  had  become  interested  in  her— in  a  thor- 
oughly high  sense  to  be  sure.  This  gentleman  had  sent 
many  talented  girls  abroad.  Miss  Arton  and  Miss 
Carton,  Mary  Mellony  and  Clara  Carles  and  others 
of  this  and  that  opera  company  had  been  educated 
at  the  expense  of  the  financier.  He  was  a  wholly  un- 
pretentious philanthropist  and  Sheehan  did  not  ex- 
actly know  what  he  wished  to  do  for  Laura,  but  he 
thought  it  was  in  the  way  of  offering  larger  opportuni- 
ties—possibly he  would  suggest  an  organization  of 
her  own. 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Hopper?"  interrupted  Laura, 
Significantly. 

His  surprise  at  the  apparent  irrelevancy  of  the 
question  deceived  her.  No ;  he  had  never  heard  of 
her;  if  she  were  a  patroness  of  art  he  had  certainly 
known  of  her. 

"Well,  no,  she  is  not  that.    But  go  on. 

Well,  that  was  all.  It  was  a  purely  disinter- 
ested matter  which  she  ought  to  consider.  Please  let 
him  know  and  he  would  arrange  to  introduce  her. 
She  thought  of  it  for  an  hour  after  he  had  gone.  Then 
Mrs.  Quincy  was  called  in  and  consulted.  It  was,  of 
course,  possible  that  the  unknown's  notices  were  phi- 
lanthropic, but  the  chance  favored  her  own  experi- 
ences, in  such  cases.  Still  an  introduction  would  do 
no  harm,  and  it  was  barely  likely  it  would  be  advan- 
tageous to  her.  Yes,  meet  him  by  all  means;  never 
throw  a  chance  away.  Wishing  to  free  her  mind  of 
the  doubtful  matter  she  wrote  Sheehan  before  going 
to  the  theatre,  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  see  his 
friend.  It  was  Thursday  afternoon  when  the  letter 
was  posted,  but  Sheehan 's  response  was  not  received 
until  Saturday  at  midday.  The  time  for  the  introduc- 
tion was  set  for  the  next  day,  Sunday.  He  would  call 
about  five  o  'clock  and  escort  her  to  the  Koyalty,  where 
his  friend  would  await  them.  The  day  chosen— when 
there  was  no  performance— the  hour  and  the  manner 


A  PATRON  OF  AET.  191 

of  the  rendezvous  strengthened  Laura's  suspicion  that 
Sheehan's  calling  was  identical  with  that  of  Mrs.  Hop- 
per. Now  that  she  had  started  she  would  abide  by 
her  course  to  the  positive  proof  of  Sheehan's  suspected 
profession.  He  came  in  a  carriage  and  his  conversa- 
tion and  demeanor  from  the  house  to  the  luxurious 
hotel  were  irreproachable.  In  his  talk  of  the  theatre 
he  deftly  made  known  Strathmore's  name,  whom  he 
extolled  with  fine  taste,  tact  and  skillful  discriminat- 
tion.  He  touched  upon  his  wealth  lightly;  he  spoke 
of  his  influence  emphatically.  He  commended  his  ap- 
pearance and  charming  manner,  neither  of  which  Laura 
was  prepared  to  endorse  when  they  were  seated  in  the 
discreetly  screened  corner  of  the  be-planted,  be-foun- 
tained  and  be-pictured  dining  room.  Sheehan  excused 
himself  and  left  her  with  a  man  who  at  the  first 
glance,  but  only  at  the  first,  looked  younger  than  she 
had  pictured  him.  Tall  and  washed  out,  his  scant 
hair  was  yellowish  gray  and  his  mustache  a  grayish 
yellow.  There  were  no  hairs  above  the  ears,  below  they 
were  sparse  and  withered.  The  flaccid  cheeks,  the 
loose,  fishy  mouth,  the  long,  protuberant  nose  and  the 
narrow  forehead  were  changing  from  yellow  to  white 
by— apparently— too  much  washing.  The  flabbiness, 
the  huelessness  of  the  man  was  in  his  voice  even,  which 
was  thin  and  white.  His  wan  eye  gave  an  occasional 
dart,  when  Laura  shifted  her  position  or  made  a  gest- 
ure. This  chance  illumination  of  the  eye  seemed  for 
a  moment  to  vivify  the  pulpy  figure,  but  only  for  a 
moment;  presently  the  flabby  body  relapsed  to  a  jellied 
state  and  its  only  token  of  life  was  the  colorless  voice ; 
but  the  colorless  tones  were  at  times  insinuating ;  again 
they  were  suggestive;  they  were  always  interesting. 
He  spoke  facilely.  He  was  conversant  with  the  arts, 
with  paintings,  with  books,  with  music,  with  plays. 
He  had  a  personal  acquaintance  with  many  artists. 

But  with  succeeding  minutes  Laura  became  ill  at 
ease.  She  had  disliked  him  in  the  initial  look,  and 
though  his  talk  interested  her,  the  more  wine  he  drank 
the  stronger  her  repulsion  grew,  for  with  increased 
potations  the  dormant  animal  concealed  in  the  pulpy 


192  A  PATRON  OF  ART. 

man  awakened.  The  appearance  of  the  real  creature 
was  gradual;  it  became  slowly  visible  in  the  creeping 
glow  of  the  skin,  the  steady  brilliancy  of  the  eye,  the 
nervous  twist  of  the  nose,  the  nervous  quiver  of  the 
mouth.  Not  an  indecorous  word  came  from  him,  how- 
ever. He  expressed  no  thought  not  in  perfect  pro- 
priety—until the  bill  was  paid  and  the  waiter  was  feed. 
He  then  moved  almost  imperceptibly  on  a  tentative 
plane.  It  had  always  afforded  him  the  highest  grati- 
fication to  promote  the  interests  of  people  of  talent, 
preferably  the  interests  of  young  ladies  without  influ- 
ential connections.  If  he  could  do  anything  more  for 
Miss  Darnby  would  she  be  good  enough  to  command 
him?  The  emphasis  on  the  more  prompted  Laura  to 
demand : 

"You  say  more,  Mr.  Strathmore.  Am  I  indebted 
to  you  in  any  way?" 

He  promptly  replied:  "Indebted,  no,  no.  But — 
perhaps  Mr.  Sheehan  will  tell  you  that  I  suggested 
more  prominence  in  the  press  in  your  behalf." 

She  understood.  There  had  been  complete  silence  but 
for  his  slight  sips  of  coffee,  taken  at  leisurely  inter- 
vals, and  the  light,  genteel  showers  of  the  crested 
fountains. 

When  he  put  the  cup  down,  empty,  he  drew  his 
head  toward  his  shoulder,  leaned  forward  and  asked 
slowly  and  deliberately:  "Laura,  will  you  permit 
me  to  entertain  you  this  evening?" 

She  had  expected  something  of  that  kind,  but  not 
so  soon ;  nor  did  she  expect  it  would  come  in  that  way. 
His  abrupt  familiarity  shocked  her;  his  cool  self-pos- 
session in  posing  the  question  gave  her  a  momentary 
feeling  of  humiliation.  Her  face  lowered  for  a  mo- 
ment and  changed  color;  then  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
said  decisively:  "No"  in  a  tone  an  octave  above  the 
conversational  key  and  rose. 

The  waiter,  at  a  deferential  distance,  stood  in  an 
uncertain  suspense;  the  woman  had  risen,  probably 
waiting  to  be  assisted  with  her  cloak.  But  the  liberal 
Mr.  Strathmore  had  not  changed  position.  The  waiter 
thought  he  saw  something  painful  between  the  din- 


A  PATEON  OF  ART.  193 

ers;  he  decided  to  see  nothing  until  the  liberal  Mr. 
Strathmore  should  give  him  a  cue. 

Laura    reached    for   her    cloak.      Strathmore    rose 
lazily.    He  drawled:    "Oh,  you  are  going,  are  you?" 

She  answered  firmly :    "Yes,  I  am  going.    Waiter!" 

Seeing  the  liberal  Mr.  Strathmore  up,  the  flunkey 
responded. 

"I  didn't  suppose  there  was  so  much  of  the  prude 
in  a  divorced  woman." 

The  answer  came:    "You  see  there  is;  and  with  it 
there  is  disgust  for  very  ordinary  libertines." 

She  winced  him  quite  as  much  as  he  startled  her 
by  his  knowledge  of  the  past.  Obviously  some  one— 
very  probably  Sheehan — had  been  busy  with  her  rec- 
ord. Who  had  imparted  the  information?  Protony? 
No.  He  had  shown  too  much  regret  for  his  part  in 
her  dismissal  from  the  Marshall  Company  to  reveal 
the  miseries  of  her  experience.  Carr  ?  Again  no.  She 
had  left  town  long  before  Sheehan  first  called  at 
Mrs.  Quincy's.  A  fairly  certain  solution  offered 
itself  when  she  returned  to  her  room— after  having 
been  escorted  to  the  carriage  by  a  fellow  whose  self- 
control  was  so  demoralized  by  the  appellation  "or- 
dinary libertine"  that  he  churlishly  declined  to  enter 
the  cab.  There  was  a  letter  on  the  table  in  an  inscrip- 
tion which  she  recognized  instantly,  though  not  seen 
since  what  had  seemed  the  forgotten  past;  it  was  an 
appeal  from  Darnby  for  money.  He  was  in  dire  dis- 
tress. He  had  lost  his  last  dollar  at  Sheepshead  Bay. 
He  was  threatened  with  expulsion  from  a  Raines-law 
hotel.  In  barely  decent  grammar  and  crude  phrase- 
ology he  was  cheaply  sentimental  in  a  peroration 
meant  to  move  her  to  assist  him.  Fag  ends  of  cigar 
clerk's  pathos — "Remember  what  we  were  to  each 
other;  I  can't  forget  the  lovely  days  we  passed  together. 
I  know  I  was  not  good  to  you  sometimes,  but  I  always 
loved  you,"  etc.,  etc. — made  up  the  last  paragraphs. 
The  concluding  line  assured  that  he  would  return  in 
a  little  while  any  sum  she  might  send  him:  "So  help 
me,  God!"  The  cheap,  degraded  effrontery  which  the 
plea  implied— its  puerile  presentation— aroused  in  her 


194  A  PATEON  OF  AET. 

a  mingled  feeling  of  peculiar  contempt  and  gratifica- 
tion. Contempt  for  him;  gratification  in  the  thought 
that  she  had  at  least  the  strength  to  emerge  from  the 
mud  in  which  Darnhy  was  living.  The  certainty  that 
Sheehan  had  been  posted  impelled  her  to  apply  the  let- 
ter to  the  gas  light  in  order  to  be  rid  of  it  as  of  some 
pestilent  thing.  She  retired,  nauseated  with  Darnby, 
with  Sheehan,  with  Strathmore. 

The  feeling  was  not  dispelled  when  the  maid  brought 
up,  at  about  noon,  a  letter  inscribed  in  a  loose,  nerve- 
less, uneven  hand.  Strathmore  begged  to  apologize. 
For  the  first  time  in  'his  life  he  had  lost  control  of 
himself.  He  wished  to  be  forgiven  for  his  discourte- 
ous treatment  if  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  have 
an  opportunity  to  make  amends.  Might  he  hope  that 
she  would  drop  a  line  of  forgiveness  ? 

She  did  not  gratify  that  hope,  not  even  after  Shee- 
han had  called  and  urged  the  acceptance  of  Strath- 
more's  offer  to  star  her.  To  that  end  a  play  would 
be  written  for  her — Sidney  Kleeblatt  would  write  it. 

No!  No!  and  again  No!  She  would  not  accept; 
she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  Strathmore.  And 
would  Sheehan  oblige  her  by  not  calling  again?  She 
did  not  need  an  agent. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES. 

The  next  morning  The  Wire  published  a  paragraph 
suggesting  that  the  Princess  Chali  in  the  "Oriental 
Nights"  had  changed  out  of  all  recognition.  Notwith- 
standing the  warmth  which  her  role  had  suggested 
she  had  become  cold ;  her  coldness  affected  the  ambient 
air  so  that  one  was  immune  from  fervor  or  fever  in 
her  presence.  Neither  prosperity  nor  adversity  had 
taught  Princess  Chali  anything;  she  continued  to  add 
to  her  surplus  zeal  in  her  own  behalf  and  a  deficit  of 
discretion  in  behalf  of  others.  Her  insubordination  was 
the  terror  of  the  stage  that  tolerated  her. 

This  thrust  was  soon  followed  by  others  in  the 
various  papers  that  had  puffed  her.  The  fateful  con- 
sequence was  a  change  of  atmosphere  at  the  theatre. 
The  call-boy  again  spoke  to  her  in  a  loud  voice.  Sig- 
man  resumed  his  familiarity;  Bolton's  head  was  high, 
his  face  stern  when  he  passed  her  and  as  before  he 
forgot  to  speak.  Some  members  of  the  chorus  took 
on  a  sniffing  air  whenever  she  appeared;  a  few,  the 
frankly  frail,  smiled  maliciously.  Before  the  end  of 
the  week  the  postman  brought  her  two  letters.  One 
was  from  Ross,  urging  her  again  and  again  to  come 
to  the  Waldborough— curious  that  she  always  heard 
from  him  in  days  of  distress.  The  other  gave  her  an 
acutely  disagreeable  sensation;  it  was  merely  a  bill 
"for  services  rendered"  from  Sheehan,  but  the  sum 
demanded  was  sensationally  large,  $500.00  almost  the 
amount  of  her  savings. 

That  night  as  she  entered  the  dressing  room  after 
the  last  curtain  a  note  was  handed  her,  from  Bolton 
notifying  that  the  management  having  decided  to  make 
certain  changes  in  the  cast,  Miss  Darnby's  engagement 

(196) 


196  PEEFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES. 

with  the  Victory  Company  would  be  discontinued  two 
weeks  from  date. 

Laura  readily  perceived  the  cumulative  pressure 
brought  to  bear  and  it  aroused  her  to  resentment,  but 
she  commanded  herself  sufficiently  to  give  no  intima- 
tion of  what  She  would  do.  She  determined  to  em- 
barass  Bolton.  Knowing  him  to  be  shrewd  and  suspi- 
cious— aware  that  he  would  be  on  the  alert— she  ap- 
peared as  usual  the  first  and  second  nights  following 
the  notification.  The  third  evening  she  went  to  the 
dressing  room  as  usual,  at  the  customary  hour,  taking 
care  to  be  seen  by  Sigman  and  some  other  members. 
At  ten  minutes  after  eight  o'clock — or  five  minutes 
before  the  time  set  for  the  curtain  to  rise— she  walked 
out  of  the  stage  door  unperceived.  Half  an  hour  later 
Sigman,  red  and  short  of  breath,  appeared  at  Mrs. 
Quincy's  imploring  Laura  to  return.  The  curtain  was 
being  held.  He  promised  everything  and  anything; 
Bolton  would  retain  her  and  increase  her  salary;  she 
would  be  starred  in  the  next  production.  Finding  her 
obdurate  he  changed  front  and  threatened  all  manner 
of  things ;  he  would  have  her  denounced  in  every  paper 
in  the  country;  she  would  never  get  another  engage- 
ment; she  would  be  sued  for  breach  of  contract,  for 
the  management  was  entitled  to  a  fortnight's  notice. 
At  this  juncture  Laura  calmly  wished  him  "good 
night"  and  walked  upstairs  to  her  room. 

She  awoke  early  and  her  awaking  moments  were 
charged  with  terror  at  what  She  had  done.  Sleep  had 
banished  anger.  The  morning's  calm  brought  full 
realization  of  her  audacity.  She  feared  to  look  at  the 
morning  papers.  In  her  terrorized  state  she  sent  for 
Ross,  who  came  within  half  an  hour  after  the  messen- 
ger had  found  him.  She  told  him  everything— about 
Sheehan,  about  Strathmore;  the  change  from  defer- 
ence to  indignity  at  the  theatre.  Ross  had  listened 
with  rising  approval— indicated  by  nods  and  looks. 
When  she  had  finished  he  asked  if  she  had  read  the 
papers. 

"Good,  don't  read  them  to-day.  They  do  not  treat 
you  well,  and  it  would  only  exasperate  you  to  read 


PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES.  197 

them.  Madge  Fleming  was  put  in  your  place  after 
they  had  held  the  curtain  for  an  hour.  Now,  why 
don't  you  come  over  to  one  of  my  hotels.  I'm  pretty 
well  known  among  the  profession  and  among  my  ac- 
quaintances are  several  managers.  After  what  has  oc- 
curred—you've got  an  undeserved  reputation  for 
insubordination— it  may  not  be  easy  to  get  another 
engagement  without  assistance." 

She  thanked  him  sincerely,  but  said  that  this  of 
all  times— when  she  had  just  been  dismissed,  when 
she  was 'without  an  engagement— would  be  the  most 
compromising  for  her  to  accept.  What  she  really 
wanted  of  him  was  to  help  her  to  get  her  version  of 
the  trouble  in  the  press  . 

"I'll  get  Ringold  to  square  you  with  some  of  the 
papers,"  he  instantly  promised.  "You  remember  Rin- 
gold? He  was  a  Chicagoan.  He  says  he  met  you  at 
Rector's  with  Protony  one  evening.  Yes,  the  soldierly 
fellow,  who  translates  plays.  He's  now  editor  of  the 
World  Wide  Magazine  and  stands  well  with  the  New 
York  papers." 

Both  Ross  and  Ringold  were  prompt,  for  the  next 
day  a  circular  letter  appeared  in  all  of  the  morning 
and  evening  journals;  it  was  an  unmincing  communi- 
cation, trenchantly  written  and  signed  by  Ringold.  Its 
purport  was  that  Miss  Darnby's  original  sins  were  in- 
dependence, a  high  view  of  her  art  and  a  just  estimate 
of  individual  dignity.  Thus  equipped  it  was  infalli- 
ble that  she  should  offend  those  managers  who  had 
made  an  industry  of  an  art;  infallible  that  she  should 
give  outrage  to  diseased  vanity  and  to  egregious  egotism 
Her  latest  offense  was  to  defend  personal  purity  against 
libertinism.  Because  she  did  not  care  to  exchange  her 
person  as  well  as  her  talents  for  money  she  had  of- 
fended the  keeper  of  an  exhibition  where  amplitude  of 
limb  was  the  cardinal  requisite  of  success  and  where 
the  estimate  of  women  was  oriental  and  nothing  but 
oriental.  If  the  management  felt  at  all  constrained 
to  refute  these  inferences  specific  facts  and  names 
in  proof  were  forthcoming.  An  interesting  bill  for  serv- 
ices rendered  by  a  serviceable  fellow  about  town  was 


198  PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES. 

ready  to  be  given  in  evidence  of  an  earnest  beginning. 

Laura  saw  that  the  allusion  to  Sheehan  had  a  double 
purpose;  primarily  it  was  a  notice  to  the  journalists 
who  had  in  turn  attacked  and  eulogized  her  that  their 
connection  with  Sheehan  was  known ;  literally  a  warn- 
ing to  Sheehan  to  desist  from  any  attempt  to  intimidate 
her.  Soon  after  sihe  received  a  note  to  come  to  the 
Waldborough  immediately. 

A  bell  boy  guided  her  through  a  labyrinth  of  cor- 
ridors to  a  high  and  sweeping  parlor  in  purple,  where 
Ross  and  a  rubicund  man  were  awaiting  her.  She  was 
introduced  to  an  Englishman  who  remarked  at  once: 
"Oh,  yes.  I  think  she  will  do.  Just  the  look;  just  the 
build."  He  then  explained:  He  was  Mrs.  Michael 
McDonald's  manager.  Mrs.  McDonald's  leading  lady, 
he  feared,  would  fail  them  in  New  York.  She  was 
playing  her  roles  in  Chicago  through  sheer  strength 
of  will ;  but  nothing  must  be  left  to  time  or  chance  dur- 
ing the  New  York  engagement.  It  was  as  necessary 
that  Mrs.  McDonald  make  a  favorable  debut  in  New 
York  as  in  Chicago— in  Chicago  where  the  people  had 
risen  to  her.  Here  were  the  parts  Marie  in  ' '  Magda ; ' ' 
Ellean  in  "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanquery;"  Gertrude  in 
"The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith;"  Clara  in  "Mariana." 
Would  Miss  Darnby  look  them  over  at  once  and  per- 
fect herself  in  the  first  of  these  at  least  ?  There  would 
be  no  trouble  about  the  salary. 

She  thanked  Ross  gratefully,  and  sped  to  Forty- 
second  Street  and  buried  herself  in  the  parts  for  a 
week.  Sunday  afternoon  the  district  messenger  service 
requested  her  to  appear  for  rehearsal  Monday  morning 
at  the  Liberty  Theatre.  It  was  definite  that  the  lead- 
ing lady  could  not  play.  From  the  day  when  Laura  had 
first  read  of  Mrs.  McDonald— an  impressionist  critique 
cabled  over  from  London  to  the  New  York  Diary — 
when  New  York  was  new  to  Laura— her  interest  in 
the  British  actress  had  been  aroused.  In  the  criticism 
Laura  felt  there  was  psychic  affinity  between  herself 
and  the  woman,  for  the  description  of  Mrs.  McDonald's 
spiritual  and  tempermental  qualities  had  drawn  her 
sympathy  completely;  a  feeling  of  accord  which  can 


PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HITES.  199 

never  be  expressed  in  words — it  can  only  be  divined 
by  each  of  us  according  to  the  instructions  of  our  hearts. 
And  from  the  day  of  Mrs.  McDonald 's  American  debut 
at  Chicago  Laura  had  eagerly  followed  the  reviews  of 
the  performances  as  they  were  wired  from  the  West. 
The  reports  of  the  actress'  art  were  confusing  and  con- 
tradictory; they  countered  and  crossed  vehemently, 
but  there  was  unanimity  as  to  the  woman's  unique 
force. 

Laura's  sensations  as  she  entered  the  stage  door 
to  meet  Mrs.  McDonald  were  disturbing ;  extreme  eager- 
ness, diffidence,  even  fear  were  strangely  commingled. 

A  regal  figure  stood  near  the  center  of  the  stage, 
the  head  lowered  to  a  pamphlet  which  she  held  in  her 
left  hand.  Though  extremely  tall  and  commanding,  a 
slight  elegant  bend  took  from  her  height  and  added  to 
her  interesting  appearance.  One  would  have  at  once  in- 
ferred her  to  be  a  queen  accustomed  to  command 
admiration  yet  winning  to  preserve  it.  The  head  lifted, 
a  pair  of  large,  dark  eyes,  liquid,  luminous,  set  in  a 
mobile,  olive-tinted  countenance;  a  face  with  a  fine 
nose  of  nervous  nostrils,  a  warm  mouth  with  rich, 
sensitive  lips.  A  luxurious  bank  of  black  hair  of 
Southern  sheen  crowned  a  woman  which  was  English 
in  form  and  Latin  in  face. 

"I  am  sure  this  is  Miss  Darnby.  Let  me  make  you 
welcome." 

So,  too,  was  the  voice  un-English ;  a  rich  contralto ; 
deep,  melodious,  haunting;  a  voice  from  a  land  of 
golden  sunshine,  of  a  sky  intensely  blue  and  waters 
of  sparkling  emerald ;  a  voice  from  a  poetic  and  ancient 
country;  the  voice  of  a  soul  that  had  once  lived  in  an 
Aeolian  harp;  the  tone  was  as  if  heard  in  a  dream; 
reminiscent  of  a  distant  joy,  an  everlasting  hope;  sug- 
gestive of  a  world  that  might  be. 

Laura  drew  back,  awed.  But  only  for  a  moment. 
The  warmth  of  the  smile,  the  welcoming  attitude  of 
the  hand  attracted  like  a  magnet. 

"I  know  that  we  will  get  on  famously.  I  already 
see  that  you  possess  an  inestimable  quality:  prompti- 
tude." 


200  PEEFTJME  AND  VIVID  HUES. 

"And  I  see  that  you  set  an  admirable  example  in 
that  respect." 

"In  me  that  is  not  a  virtue;  I  am  stage  manager." 
Laura  was  profoundly  surprised.  Yes,  Mrs.  McDon- 
ald staged  every  play ;  presided  at  every  rehearsal ;  she 
designed  all  the  costumes,  attended  to  all  the  properties. 
It  was  quite  necessary  that  every  detail  have  her  per- 
sonal attention  since  the  character  of  her  repertory 
was  of  a  school  foreign  to  the  traditional  stage  mana- 
ger—plays by  German  and  Scandinavian  realists,  by 
the  one  English  naturalist,  by  Belgian  symbolists. 
She  wished  to  abandon  the  empty  and  unreal  past, 
wished  to  concentrate  her  energies  upon  the  works 
of  men  who  were  striving  to  do  living  things— dramas 
quickened  by  the  life  of  to-day.  "The  masses— the 
barbarians  of  art— are  content  with  seeing  something 
going  on.  They  want  wrecks,  robberies,  assassina- 
tions. The  semi-refined  demand  something  that  will 
move  their  emotions;  psuedo-sentimentality,  artificial 
comedy  or  tragedy,  anything  that  will  make  them  weep 
or  laugh.  But  our  authors  appeal  to  the  completely 
refined;  to  those  who  can  be  made  to  think." 

"Such  writers  were  more  successful,"  she  added, 
smiling  quizzically,  "if  they  could  find  interpreters 
who  had  thinking  faculties  .  It  is  difficult  to  make 
the  profession  understand  these  plays." 

Laura  was  soon  made  aware  of  the  difficulty.  She 
was  introduced  to  a  lot  of  stiffly  polite  English  men 
and  women  whose  intellects  seemed  to  be  as  stilted 
as  their  manners.  Time  and  again  they  were  besought : 
"Please  don't  take  the  scene  that  way.  Here,  some- 
thing like  this.  Be  as  the  man  and  woman  of  a  human 
world."  Or  again:  "Miss  Arliss,  you  are  an  actress, 
you  are  acting.  There  is  no  place  for  theatrical  peo- 
ple in  this  play:  We  are  dealing  with  men  and 
women."  Or  again:  "Mr.  Wadham,  please  lower 
your  voice  and  repeat  those  words  quietly  but  firmly. ' ' 

"I  regret,"  she  said  to  Laura,  at  the  end  of 
the  rehearsal,  "that  your  part  is  not  longer  in 
'Magda.'  Your  conception  of  it,  I  can  see,  is  so 
true  that  you  are  sure  to  be  conspicuous.  "We  shall 


PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES.  201 

be  antithetical:  I,  the  elder  sister,  who  have  had 
the  strength  to  crush  through  the  deadening  conven- 
tionalities; have  had  the  force  to  defy  society  in  gen- 
eral and  the  iron  rules  of  a  bourgeois  home  in  par- 
ticular; have  triumphed  over  the  instincts  of  blood. 
"While  you,  my  sister,  are  all  that  I  am  not— obedient 
to  the  convention  of  society  and  the  home.  The  play 
is  well-named  'Heimath'  in  the  original.  Why  'Magda' 
I  wonder?  Why  not  'Home'  as  in  the  German?" 

Laura  hardly  heeded  the  words.  She  was  absolutely 
drawn  by  the  woman's  face  as  it  mirrored  the  senti- 
ments spoken.  But  the  first  night,  which  Laura, 
despite  her  experience,  dreaded  with  the  apprehen- 
sion characteristic  of  a  novice— or  a  genuine  artist- 
she  quite  forgot  herself  in  her  eagerness  to  see  the 
superlatively  individual  work  of  Mrs.  McDonald. 
From  the  moment  that  high,  lithesome,  strangely  mag- 
netic presence  entered  the  scene  its  face  was  beauti- 
fully serious— the  deep  and  soulful  beauty  of  one  who 
is  in  harmony  with  herself  in  having  resolved  to  live 
a  life  dictated  by  her  own  reason  and  not  by  that  of 
others  or  by  the  rote  of  tradition.  There  were  mo- 
ments in  scenes  when  sihe  appeared  to  Laura  as  if  she 
perceived  the  white  light  of  art ;  a  great  glory  seemed 
to  have  fallen  upon  her  visage  as  the  shadow  of  a 
greater.  It  was  then  that  Laura  drew  back  awed. 
Anon,  she  was  a  woman  of  passion ;  one  who  delighted 
in  gold,  marble  and  purple;  delighted  in  brilliancy, 
solidity,  color;  whose  five  senses  were  made  that  they 
might  become  articulate;  who  spoke  for  them  all  with 
a  dreadful  unconcern ;  whose  words  were  in  love  with 
matter  that  enjoyed  their  lust  and  had  no  recollection ; 
one  who  loved  imperishable  things;  the  body  as  gen- 
eration after  generation  refashioned  it;  the  world  as 
it  is  restored  and  rebuilt;  loved  gems,  hewn  stone, 
carved  ivory,  woven  tapestry  and  perfume  and  vivid 
hues.  She  seemed  a  pagan  Roman  woman  with  the 
intensely  black  hair  and  eyes;  hard  and  delicate  with 
something  of  cruelty  in  her  sympathy  with  things 
that  could  be  seen  and  handled;  who  hated  the  soul 
for  its  qualifying  and  disturbing  power  upon  the  body; 


202  PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES. 

but  not  the  body  as  a  frail,  perishable  thing  that  she 
wished  to  perpetuate;  it  was  the  beauty  of  life  itself 
imperishable  at  least  in  its  recurrence.  Again,  there 
was  a  quick  change  to  spirituality;  an  ethereal  being 
stood  before  Laura;  a  devout  creature  who  had  pene- 
trated to  the  chamber  of  a  great  art ;  had  sounded  the 
deep  and  secret  joys  of  mystic  communion,  had  wit- 
nessed the  unveiling  of  the  inner  beauties  of  the  high- 
est life  by  proving  her  love  and  worthiness  and  was 
rewarded  by  that  ineffable  rapture  which  only  art 
can  bestow,  when  it  responds  to  the  earnest  interro- 
gation of  a  worthy  supplicant.  When,  at  the  finale, 
she  sank  to  her  knees— moved  to  the  genuflexion  by 
the  death  of  the  father  whose  inexorable  volition  had 
been  opposed  by  her  invincible  will— a  hallowed  hush, 
as  if  by  command  of  an  invisible  spirit,  came  upon  the 
audience.  Never  had  Laura  been  so  thoroughly 
lifted  out  of  herself,  never  had  she  felt  the  supreme 
calm  of  spirituality  as  when  she  looked  upon  that  up- 
turned visage  in  mute  prayer.  The  Roman  woman  was 
transformed  into  a  Madonna  whose  evolution  was  an- 
swered in  a  glimpse  of  sublimity.  In  that  moment  the 
secrets  of  existence  were  opened  to  Laura,  mysterious 
things  flitted  over  her  soul.  Life  seemed  wonderful, 
seemed  holier. 

For  several  minutes  not  a  sound  was  heard  from 
the  huge  mass  now  divided  by  the  curtain  from  the 
stage.  Then  in  a  sudden  charge  of  unanimity  a  pro- 
longed peal  of  thrilled  and  thrilling  paeans.  The  cur- 
tain went  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  and  Mrs.  McDon- 
ald bowed  and  bowed  and  bowed.  The  enthusiasm 
roared  thunderously  from  the  top,  but  it  was  not  sub- 
dued from  the  circle  and  boxes. 

Laura  was  aglow  with  gladness  that  the  audience 
had  been  spell-bound  by  the  truth  of  the  actress'  ex- 
position. The  purely  unselfish  feeling  did  not  escape 
the  perspicuity  of  Mrs.  McDonald,  who,  as  she  passed 
her  to  the  dressing  room,  said:  "Will  you  come  to 
me  when  you, are  dressed?" 

Laura  rushed  -her  toilet  in  feverish  haste,  and  hur- 
ried to  the  Latin  artist  with  the  English  name  and 


PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES.  203 

manner,  who  was  then  in  the  hands  of  a  deft  but 
unhurried  maid. 

"The  audience  seemed  pleased  with  our  work,  Miss 
Darnby." 

"Pleased"  seemed  such  a  woefully  inadequate 
description  of  the  big,  palpitating  fact  that  Laura  burst 
the  bonds  of  conventional  reservation  with: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  McDonald,  they  gave  you  the  most  won- 
derful reception!  And  yet  it  is  not  half  what  you 
deserved.  But  I  never  supposed  that  our  fashionable 
world  could  be  so  moved." 

"The  fashionable  people  were  moved  because  it 
is  the  fashion  to  be  so.  I— not  my  art  or  the  plays 
I  produce— am  in  vogue  in  London.  It  were  too  long 
—and  the  matter  too  involved— to  tell  you  how  or 
why  I  was  taken  up  by  the  set  who  confer  and  diffuse 
social  distinction  in  England.  From  the  day  I  was 
hall-marked  socially,  everything  I  did  in  the  theatre 
was  approved.  The  English,  who  never  would  have 
Ibsen  or  Suderman  or  would  permit  any  of  their  own 
playwrights  to  do  anything  stronger  than  the  teacup 
and  saucer  kind  of  plays,  took  Ibsen  and  Suderman 
from  me,  an  innovation  that  allowed  Pinero  to  do 
"The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,"  "The  Notorious  Mrs. 
Ebbsmith"  and  virile  things  of  that  sort.  In  a  way, 
it  was  a  ludicrous  incongruity ;  the  very  class  that  had 
made  it  impossible  for  a  dramatist  worthy  of  the  name 
to  get  a  hearing  in  London— who  insisted  on  the  play- 
thing play— came  to  applaud  the  impossible  because 
it  was  presented  by  me— who,  by  the  merest  chance, 
was  socially  baptized.  And  because  I  am  received  in 
certain  London  drawing  rooms,  your  "  dollarocracy " 
is  besieging  the  theatre  and  my  hotel.  Invitations, 
invitations,  invitations,  nothing  but  invitations— and 
nearly  all  from  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was  grotesquely  con- 
tradictory ;  the  '  dollarocracy, '  whose  desire  is  pleasure, 
crushing  to  see  unpleasant  plays ;  problem  plays ;  psych- 
ological plays  that  demand  thought  and  a  world  sym- 
pathy—and all  because  they  are  presented  by  one  whom 
a  king  happened  to  approve.  A  strange  contrast,  in- 
deed; they  who  are  chiefly  responsible  for  the  shal- 


204  PEEFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES. 

low  optimism  of  the  day,  crowding  to  see  pictures 
depicting  the  dark,  stern  realities  of  life." 

"Yes,  we  have  much  in  common  with  the  English." 

"Much?  Everything— everything  except  language, 
of  course, ' '  she  smiled  at  the  cynicism  that  had  escaped 
her.  "But  I  do  hope  that  the  New  York  critics  will 
not  be  influenced  by  the  size  and  character  of  the 
audience  that  greeted  us  to-night." 

They  were  not.  There  was  no  difference  in  the 
kind  of  admiration  they  had  of  the  actress ;  it  differed 
in  degree  only.  But  they  were  savagely  apart  in  their 
judgment  of  her  repertoire.  The  most  of  them  sen- 
tenced it  off-hand.  Laura  liked  the  dramas.  They 
requisitioned  to  the  full  her  intellectual  capacity ;  they 
completely  engaged  her  sensibility;  they  asked  all 
that  her  heart  could  give;  they  gave  her  a  deeper 
appreciation  of  the  play  that  Robert  Ringold  had 
adapted  from  the  German. 

Ringold  was  one  of  her  early  congratulators  the 
day  following  her  appearance  with  Mrs.  McDonald,  the 
day  that  she  finally  decided  to  take  a  room  at  the  Wald- 
borough.  He  purposed  devoting  a  long  paper  to  the 
English  actress  in  the  next  number  of  his  magazine. 
Would  Laura  introduce  him?  Gladly. 

He  came  to  the  back  just  before  the  curtain  fell 
on  "The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith"  and  awaited  the 
introduction  with  the  nervous  trepidity  of  a  lad  who 
is  to  meet  his  ideal  for  the  first  time.  It  was  to  be 
seen  that  she  favored  Ringold.  She  looked  him  frankly 
in  the  eye,  extended  her  hand  freely,  though  not  un- 
femininely.  Her  frankness,  her  sincere  ease  put  him 
in  self-possession  at  once.  He  expressed  as  well  as 
he  could,  verbally,  his  admiration  of  her  as  an  expon- 
ent of  the  abiding  things  in  dramatic  art,  as  the  one 
actress  in  the  English  language  who  had  intellect  to 
appreciate  and  the  moral  courage  to  produce  such 
plays.  An  omniverous  reader,  she  knew  the  long- 
established  magazine  which  he  was  regenerating;  she 
had  read  two  articles  on  the  modern  drama  written 
by  him. 

He  experienced  the  intimate  gratification  of  rela- 
tively unknown  writers  when  they  find  they  are  ap- 


PERFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES.  205 

predated  by  one  who  is  really  authoritative.  He,  on 
his  part,  complimented  her.  He  wished  to  convey  his 
admiration  in  quiet  dignity.  Instead  his  compliment 
was  charged  with  moderately  suppressed  ardency: 
''You  delivered  those  lines  to  the  duke:  'You  are 
going  as  surely  as  the  people  are  coming'  with  the 
fervor  of  a  zealot;  they  electrified  the  house.  Even 
the  boxes  were  aroused  as  I  never  saw  them  before. 
But,"  he  added  gravely,  "that  is  about  all  you  must 
expect  from  our  aristocracy  of  wealth — applause.  A 
few  of  them  will  buy  a  picture  with  a  big  name  at  a 
big  price  now  and  again.  Their  'patronage'  of  art 
stops  at  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  spendthrift 
subscription  to  the  opera.  They  would  not  open  their 
purses  even  for  this  if  opera  had  not  become  an  inci- 
dent to  a  social  function.  Why,  New  York  will  not 
maintain  an  orchestra  that  musicians  can  respect.  We 
must  go  to  Chicago  or  Boston  or  Pittsburg  for  orches- 
tral music.  The  American  millionaire  will  do  nothing 
for  the  theatre.  He  confines  his  contributions  to  the 
support  of  the  individuals  of  the  profession— provided 
the  individual  is  young  and  attractive  and  has  no 
moral  scruples." 

"Your  criticism,  Mr.  Ringold,  covers  the  whole 
Anglo-Saxon  race,  which  insists  that  if  the  theatre 
must  do  something  serious  occasionally,  it  should  re- 
strict itself  to  shallow  optimism.  The  play  is  consid- 
ered a  plaything  that  should  either  amuse  the  mob 
or  conform  to  the  view  of  life  entertained  by  a  girl 
of  sixteen.  I  have  striven  to  present  the  continental 
idea  to  England,  but  have  not  succeeded  in  getting 
a  sincere  hearing.  London  stuffs  my  suburban  play- 
house every  night  when  I  am  there,  but  the  town  cares 
nothing  for  the  plays  I  produce— they  come  to  see 
me,  because  it  happens  to  be  good  form.  I  am  to  them 
a  fad,  nothing  more.  And  you  have  taken  me  up  here 
for  the  same  reason." 

"But  you  have  made  some  of  us  think."  Lowering 
his  voice  to  a  more  confidential  tone,  he  added:  "I 
wish  that  Miss  Darnby  were  always  with  you.  She  has 
it  in  her  to  respond  to  higher  things  in  vour  art.  For 


206  PEEFUME  AND  VIVID  HUES. 

perfect  development  she  needs  only  the  environment 
which  you  afford. ' ' 

"I  agree  with  you,"  was  the  quick  response. 
"Her  comprehension  of  these  parts  is  sane  and  lucid. 
Hers  is  a  fine,  healthful  mind — '  She  stopped,  Laura 
had  approached.  "We  were  speaking  of  you,"  she  re- 
sumed. "I  wish  that  I  could  have  you  in  London. 
However,  perhaps— perhaps—  "  she  did  not  finish  what 
Kdngold  more  than  wanted  Laura  to  hear.  It  was  as 
if  a  vague  possibility  that  she  could  not  well  express 
had  occurred  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XXTT. 

REFINEMENT'S  REFUGE. 

"It  is  a  burning  shame  that  you  are  not  in  a  high- 
class  company,"  said  Ringold,  taking  up  the  theme 
on  the  way  to  the  hotel.  "In  a  company  like  that 
at  the  Fourth  Avenue  or  the  Royalty  or  the  Keene, 
companies  that  remain  in  New  York,  that  change  their 
plays  with  sufficient  frequency  to  develop  every  vein 
in  your  splendid  talent.  It  seems  to  me  that  Ross 
could  do  something  for  you  in  that  way.  He's  well 
in  with  little  Gars,  one  of  the  big  men  of  the  theatrical 
world." 

Laura  had  thought  of  that.  She  had  heard  that 
Gars  was  one  of  the  silent  partners  with  Ross  in  the 
ownership  of  the  Waldborough  Hotel— where  nearly 
all  the  high-salaried  actors  were  guests — and  inferred 
that  his  business  relations  had  made  Ross'  influence 
effective  enough  to  reinstate  her  in  the  good  graces 
of  the  theatre  powers.  And  Ross  anticipated  her. 
' '  When  Mrs.  McDonald  sails, ' '  he  remarked,  a  few  days 
before  the  expiration  of  the  English  actress'  engage- 
ment, "you'll  be  asked  to  sign  for  a  season  with  the 
Fourth  Avenue  Company." 

It  was  the  fulfillment  of  Laura 's  professional  yearn- 
ings. A  member  of  the  Fourth  Avenue  Company! 
This  was  a  position  to  which  every  actor  not  a  star 
aspired.  To  be  a  Fourth  Avenue  player  conferred  a 
rare,  a  fine  distinction;  it  meant  refinement,  implied 
the  best  culture  the  American  stage  afforded ;  signified 
at  least  some  intellectuality.  Though  not  emancipated 
from  theatrical  tradition  in  dramatic  literature,  now 
and  'again  Gars  ventured  a  production  that  was  above 
the  mere  mechanics  of  a  playwright's  •jonventional 
output.  The  Portuguese  Jew,  Pinero,  who  wrote  in 

(207) 


208  KEFINEMENT'S  REFUGE. 

English,  was  played;  Shakespeare  and  Sheridan  were 
occasionally  taken  up  with  due  humility  and  expounded 
with  reverence;  a  good  solid  German  composition  was 
put  in  scene  when  the  machine-made  money-makers 
displayed  signs  of  fatigue;  when  occasion  permitted 
a  dainty  bit  of  satire  like  "Society"  was  understand- 
ingly  staged. 

Laura  was  not  so  sure  of  herself  as  usual  when 
she  sent  in  her  card  to  Carl  Gars,  to  whom  she  was  ad- 
mitted at  once.  In  the  round,  compact,  pursy  little 
fellow  with  the  alert  almost  refined  countenance  she 
recognized  a  figure  familiar  in  the  dining  room  of  the 
hotel.  And  he  put  her  instantly  at  ease.  He  knew  her 
by  sight  and  reputation;  was  indebted  to  Mr.  Ross  for 
the  suggestion  that  she  become  a  member  of  the 
Fourth  Avenue.  Then  he  went  to  the  matter  in  hand 
briskly.  She  would  be  assigned  miscellaneous  roles 
for  the  first  season ;  the  salary  $75.00  a  week.  Within 
a  fortnight  a  new  comedy  would  be  rehearsed.  Her 
part  would  be  sent  her  to  the  hotel.  That  was  all; 
the  briefness  and  simplicity  of  it  all  surprised  her. 
She  permitted  herself  to  remark  that  she  expected 
more  formality,  more  circumlocution ;  expected,  indeed, 
an  army  of  people  awaiting  their  turn  in  the  ante 
room  to  see  the  manager  who  was  known  as  the  busiest 
man  in  the  country. 

"You  have  answered  your  own  question;  by  being 
the  busiest  man  I  must  do  my  work  quickly;  and  I 
never  see  any  one  personally,  except  by  appointment." 

She  signed  the  season's  contract  with  a  happy  heart 
and,  returning  to  the  Waldborough,  thanked  Ross  with 
a  warmth  that  flushed  his  face.  His  face  quickly 
changed  to  provisional  malaise  when  he  asked:  "Did 
you — did  you— meet  any  acquaintances  there?" 

"Well— well,"— he  cleared  his  throat— "you  know, 
or  rather  you  don't  know"— really  for  a  man  of  the 
world  Ross  was  beginning  to  display  extraordinary 
embarrassment  in  Laura's  presence — "that— that  Pro- 
tony" — why  didn't  he  prefix  the  Mister? — "is  em- 
ployed there  as  assistant  stage  manager." 

Without  showing  the  least  sign  of  interest,  she  an- 


REFINEMENT'S  REFUGE.  209 

swered,  unconcerned :  "Mr.  Protony  is  nothing  to  me." 

He  knew:  what  disquieted  him  was  that  she  was 
still  a  great  deal  to  Protony,  who,  when  she  appeared 
at  the  first  rehearsal  of  "The  Case  of  Rebellious  Susan" 
changed  color,  stared  at  her  without  responding  to  the 
formal  salutation.  It  was  with  an  effort  that  he  made 
himself  aware  of  his  surroundings. 

"I  wasn't  notified  that  you  were  to  be  in  this  pro- 
duction." There  were  distinct  tones  of  reproach  and 
disapproval  in  the  remark. 

"Why  should  you  have  been  notified.  You  are  only 
a  subordinate  here  as  you  have  been  everywhere. ' '  The 
appearance  of  a  stout,  spectacled  man  excused  Protony 
from  making  a  reply,  which  he  was  too  upset  to  formu- 
late. Thinking  Protony  and  Laura  unacquainted  the 
rotund  individual  ventured  politely,  "Permit  me;  I 
am  Mr.  Perley,  the  stage  manager.  May  I  ask  if  you 
are  the  new  member,  Miss  Darnby?" 

This  was  the  key-note  to  the  theatre's  manners. 
There  were  no  familiar  informalities  even  amongst  the 
stage  hands.  Everybody  was  considerately  formal. 
Immediately  that  Laura  was  introduced  to  Jeannette 
Huff,  the  stately  leading  lady;  to  Mary  Warner,  the 
emotional  juvenile  lead;  to  the  magnificently  con- 
structed Ida  Vendome;  to  the  fluttering,  diminutive 
soubrette  Alice  Shlady;  to  Henry  Favorim,  the  strut- 
ting pug-nosed  lover;  to  Raymond  Hackney,  the 
dreamy-eyed  romancist;  to  William  Lowney,  the  roll- 
ing voiced  character  lead  and  to  Mrs.  Lowney,  the  fine 
flower  of  dowager  duchesses,  Laura  was  aware  of  a 
professional  society  quite  different  from  what  she  had 
ever  experienced.  There  was  a  strict  observance  of  the 
amenities.  The  women  were  graceful,  gracious  and 
held  the  graces  as  a  primal  thing.  The  men  were  polite 
and  decorous  as  a  corps  of  diplomatists  at  a  conference 
involving  the  destiny  of  nations.  Not  that  the  pursy 
Perley  was  not  a  rigid  disciplinarian;  but  his  steeled 
hand  was  encased  in  a  velvet  glove;  his  orders,  his 
suggestions  were  conveyed  in  pleasant  words — unctu- 
ously turned.  The  lack  of  such  association  hitherto 
made  Laura  ill  at  ease  at  the  first  rehearsal,  though 


210  REFINEMENT'S  REFUGE. 

she  was  well  up  in  her  part,  though  the  actors  were 
heedful  of  her  position  and  though  Mr.  Lowney  whis- 
pered encouragement  occasionally. 

But  the  evening  of  the  production  Laura  was  in 
perfect  self-command,  and  she  perceived  the  company's 
distinction  clearer  than  during  the  rehearsals.  Her 
small  role  permitted  her  to  witness  the  play  from 
the  wings  during  the  more  part  of  the  evening.  She 
saw  that  the  women  were  perfect  in  technique  and 
deportment;  that  the  men  looked  and  acted  the  part 
of  gentlemen. 

The  last  line  of  the  comedy  spoken,  Laura  went  to 
her  dressing  room  nervous,  uncertain.  She  wondered 
what  position  she  had  assumed  in  this  otherwise  fine  pic- 
ture. She  felt  her  imperfections  keenly ;  were  they  ob- 
servable to  others?  Soon  she  was  alleviated  by  the 
thought  that  if  badly  done  her  character  was  episodic ; 
it  would  not  mar  the  production.  She  wished  most  anx- 
iously, however,  to  have  an  opinion  of  her  work  before 
retiring,  but  her  innate  modesty  would  not  allow  her  to 
hint  of  such  a  question  to  anybody,  her  experience 
in  the  profession  notwithstanding.  She  had  a  hope 
that  Henry  Favorim  would  enlighten  her  when  he 
offered  to  escort  her  to  the  hotel,  but  this  was  chilled 
near  the  stage  entrance  when  he  introduced  her  to  a 
matronly  woman  with  a  worried  look,  older  than  him- 
self, as  Mrs.  Favorim.  She  scrutinized  Laura  sharply 
at  the  introduction,  bowed  only  relentingly,  then  de- 
voted her  attention  exclusively  to  Favorim.  She  told 
about  the  impression  he  had  made,  went  into  the  veriest 
details  of  his  acting,  answered  all  his  questions  in 
extenso.  Not  a  word  with  reference  to  others  was 
spoken;  Laura  felt  herself  absolutely  forgotten  and 
was  only  reminded  of  her  existence  by  a  hurried 
"good  night"  at  the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  where  Ross 
was  awaiting  her.  He  had  been  at  the  theatre  and 
elated  her  by  sincere  congratulations,  and  by  assuring 
that  Gars  was  pleased  with  her  first  appearance.  The 
encouragement  was  not  modified  by  the  morning  papers. 
All  praised  the  play;  nearly  all  the  production.  The 
views  on  the  acting  were  divergent,  but  while  Laura's 


REFINEMENT'S  REFUGE.  211 

first  appearance  in  the  company  was  dismissed  with 
a  few  lines  the  notices  were  favorable.  Nothing  was 
said  of  her  insubordination,  of  her  trouble  with  other 
managers.  Not  in  many  days  did  unalloyed  gratifi- 
cation possess  her  so  fully  as  that  morning.  There 
was  no  false  note  in  her  satisfaction  with  herself  and 
her  circumstances.  She  felt  that  the  pinching,  trying, 
goading  and  miserable  past  was  gone;  felt  that  she 
was  in  a  new  world— on  a  higher,  more  refined  plane 
of  life  where  one  was  shielded  from  the  carking  cares 
and  the  sordidness  of  the  inferior  stratum  of  the  pro- 
fession. 

This  ideal  mental  elevation  was  presently  lowered. 
The  third  time  she  was  invited  to  accompany  the 
Favorims,  Laura  sensed  the  wife's  jealousy  and  divined 
that  the  jealousy  was  founded  on  something  more  sub- 
stantial than  the  consciousness  on  the  woman's  part 
of  superior  age  and  an  unattractive  person.  From 
that  evening  she  went  home  in  Ida  Vendome's  car- 
riage. Next  she  read  Alice  Shlady's  ill  will;  it  was 
not  exactly  jealousie  de  metier,  nor  precisely  envy  of 
Laura's  stature  or  beauty  that  the  mercurial  midget 
displayed;  it  was  a  little  of  each  with  a  small  dose 
of  dislike  which  some  people  harbor  for  new  comers. 
Manifestations  of  the  little  soubrette's  aversion  began 
with  cool,  only  half-audible  replies  to  Laura's  saluta- 
tions ;  a  few  days  later  she  feigned  not  to  hear  Laura, 
passing  her  without  recognition.  Presently  a  spiteful 
smile  would  mirror  itself  upon  the  diminutive  features 
of  the  talented  creature  whenever  she  met  Laura.  The 
latter  soon  assumed  absolute  ignorance  of  Shlady's 
existence.  The  indifference  that  kills  infallibly  told 
on  the  soubrette.  She  affronted  Laura  one  day  with: 
"You've  been  married,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  and  you  haven't,  have  you?  And  never  can 
be.  Men  don't  like  a  cheap  pocket  edition  of  a 
woman." 

This  was  a  home  thrust  which  hushed  the  peckings 
in  that  quarter.  But  there  were  disagreeable  whiffs, 
occasionally  from  other  sides.  Huff  was  condescend- 
ing to  a  degree  that  was  almost  unpleasant.  Perley, 


212  REFINEMENT'S  REFUGE. 

the  stage  manager,  became  exigent— Laura  suspected 
that  Protony  figured  here.  The  looks  of  the  super- 
numeraries were  less  deferential  when  Laura  passed. 
These  needled  currents  were  fugitive,  however,  and 
Laura's  ruffled  sensibilities  were  quickly  soothed  by 
the  invincible  gentility  of  the  men  (Gars  always  had 
an  encouraging  word  for  her  ),  and  the  wholesome  com- 
araderie  of  Ida  Vendome,  who  was  the  good  fellow  of 
the  company.  Everybody  liked  "Big  Ida" — everybody 
from  the  door-keeper  to  the  manager.  Even  the  peck- 
ing, prying,  pin-tongued  Shlady  became  rational  in 
the  presence  of  Ida,  for  that  presence  was  healthful. 
She  was  so  sane  and  so  splendid  that  littleness,  mean- 
ness— everything  that  was  low  and  unworthy  vanished 
with  her  appearance.  Withal  she  was  womanly  in 
the  wide  acceptance  of  the  term.  And  she  was  the 
receptacle  for  the  general  troubles  of  the  women  and 
the  domestic  -and  feminine  infelicities  of  the  men.  She 
gave  counsel  to  all.  She  was  indulgent  to  the  foibles 
of  everybody  and  readily  condoned  the  moral  imper- 
fections of  her  own  and  the  other  sex.  She  called 
herself  the  "Lilliputian's  Idol."  Like  most  women 
of  massive  and  imposing  charms,  she  inspired  ardent 
admiration  in  little  men  and  the  .ardency  intensified 
the  smaller  and  the  more  nervous  the  man.  If  she  did 
not  receive  a  marriage  proposal  from  an  undersized 
votary  at  least  once  a  week  she  was  in  mock  despair. 
Her  lament  would  be:  "I'm  fading;"  or,  "I'm  grow- 
ing thin — I'm  shrinking;  the  little  fellows  have  de- 
serted me."  She  would  call  Laura  into  her  room 
at  the  hotel  and  read  letters  from  the  "stunted  aspir- 
ants," as  s<he  named  them.  They  were  all  sternly 
serious  in  their  protestations  of  devotion;  all  were 
signed,  the  address  following.  Laura  suspected  there 
was  somebody  who  need  not  write.  She  wondered 
who  it  was  until  one  afternoon,  when  Ida  was  read- 
ing an  unusually  large  consignment  of  amatory  epis- 
tles, Carl  Gars  was  announced.  Ida  had  just  finished 
a  heated  letter  and  was  laughing  immoderately. 
"What's  the  joke?  Let  me  laugh,  too,"  was  Gars' 
greeting  as  he  entered. 


REFINEMENT'S  EEFUGE.  213 

"Oh,  the  little  fellows  are  getting  worse  and  worse 
as  I  grow  larger.  Here's  one  from  a  sa wed-off  that 
is  quite  tragic." 

The  round,  diminutive  manager  became  grave  of 
aspect.  He  had  a  meaningful  look  as  he  said:  "I 
believe  it  is  tragic.  It  certainly  is  not  a  laughable 
matter."  Ida's  smile  hardened  into  a  repentant  ex- 
pression. Then  Laura  understood.  The  identity  was 
disclosed.  Laura  marveled  at  their  consummate  dis- 
cretion. She  had  not  heard  their  names  connected 
even  by  inuendo  in  or  around  the  theatre.  She  doubted 
if  any  one  suspected,  for  aside  from  the  rebuking 
remark  and  the  exchange  of  glances,  there  was  noth- 
ing in  their  countenances  allusive  of  an  engagement; 
for  it  was  apparently  a  strictly  business  talk  for  which 
Ida  seemed  prepared.  Gars  had  bought  another  the- 
atre—he explained  to  Laura  after  he  had  insisted  that 
she  remain  in  the  room — and  it  was  his  intention  to 
star  Miss  Vendome— star  her  for  engagements  in  New 
York  and  nearby  cities  only.  He  had  ordered  a  play 
from  Hyde  Fish  the  other  day  which  would  be  finished 
in  a  fortnight. 

In  thanking  Laura  for  her  good  wishes  Ida  added 
apologetically  that  she  had  not  been  at  liberty  to  tell 
of  the  plan  before.  In  a  day  or  two  a  general  announce- 
ment would  be  made. 

Gars'  selection  of  Ida  for  stellar  honors  confirmed 
Laura  in  her  identification  of  "somebody;"  it  also 
demonstrated  to  her  the  all  but  supreme  importance 
of  influence  with  the  influential  elements  in  the  pro- 
fession. This  truism  wrought  deep  into  'her  when  in 
response  to  Gars'  request  that  she  step  into  his  office 
he  told  her  that:  "Ida— Miss  Vendome— recommends 
you  for  such  parts  as  she  has  been  playing  here.  She 
leaves  us  next  week.  You  will  have  her  position  and, 
of  course,  her  salary." 

She  thanked  him  in  confused  delight  and  expressed 
her  gratitude  to  Vendome  by  throwing  her  arms  around 
her  neck  and  kissing  her  repeatedly. 

Vendome  protested :  "It  was  not  I  alone.  I  merely 
endorsed  another's  recommendation,  though  I  intended 


214  KEFINEMENT'S  REFUGE. 

to  be  the  first.  Carl— Mr.  Gars— wanted  my  opinion 
and  of  course  I  said  yes.  I  was  chagrined  that  I  had 
been  forestalled." 

"Why,  who  was  it?" 

"Don't  you  know?"  She  had  turned  and  drawn 
the  sentence  in  slow  surprise;  her  glance  was  of  the 
penetrating  kind. 

"Protony,"  came  from  her.  She  had  hardly  uttered 
the  name,  when  its  improbability  was  apparent. 

Vendome  was  genuinely  astonished:  "Protony, 
the  assistant  stage  manager?  Why,  what  is  he  to 
you?  Certainly  not.  Can't  you  think  of  somebody 
else?"  Her  look  was  again  like  the  glint  from  steel. 

Laura  had  now  had  time  to  bring  reason  into  play. 
"Mr.  Ross?" 

"Exactly.  But  why  should  you  have  thought  of 
Protony?  Carl — Mr.  Gars— on  the  contrary  said  that 
Protony  had  made  disparaging  comments  on  your 
work. ' ' 

The  quips  of  mentality— which  ignore  finely  drawn 
consistency,  nice  analogy,  striking  similes — brought 
to  her  mind  Queen  Elizabeth's  lover,  Essex,  who,  in 
jealous  frenzy,  sought  to  revile  the  woman  lost  to  him. 
Ida's  remarks  told  Laura  that  she  still  was  the  all  in 
all  of  Protony 's  life,  though  now  that  she  recalled  him 
she  remembered  that  he  had  studiously  avoided  her 
since  her  engagement  at  the  Fourth  Avenue  Theatre. 
Neither  had  she  seen  anything  of  him  at  the  hotel, 
where  Ross  was  as  discreetly  attentive  as  ever ;  or  bet- 
ter said,  his  discretion  had  not  been  strained  under 
his  increased  attention.  When  she  thought  of  the  early 
days  at  the  Lake  Side  in  Chicago  she  could  not  recon- 
cile the  Ross  of  that  time  and  to-day.  He  was  changed 
— and  so  was  she.  And,  alas!  so  was  Protony.  How 
different  was  her  position!  Then  she  was  apprehen- 
sive, clinging,  confiding,  afraid  and  yet  trustful; 
uncertain  of  mind,  of  feeling,  wholly  unknown  to  her- 
self. Now  she  knew  the  world,  and  better  still  she 
knew  herself.  She  was  confidently  poised,  aware  of 
the  persuasive  power  of  her  sex  in  a  magnificently 
opulent  city  where  that  power  is  strengthened  in  one 


REFINEMENT'S  REFUGE.  215 

who  has  just  self-appreciation,  who  has  self-respect 
in  the  old-fashioned  meaning  of  that  term.  It  had  come 
to  her  steadily  and  surely  that  neither  art  nor  ambi- 
tion alone  will  insure  a  woman  against  the  loss  or 
depreciation  of  that  ineffable  influence  over  men  which 
nature  has  given  her.  There  are  times  when  art  looks 
hollow  and  ambition  seems  a  phantasy.  To  be  what 
nature  intended  her  to  be  and  not  to  be  what  many 
women  are,  a  woman  must  have  a  deep  but  unostenta- 
tious recognition  of  the  fact  that  she  is— a  woman; 
rightly  estimated,  the  most  precious  thing  Providence 
has  bestowed  upon  a  confused,  inchoate  and  incompre- 
hensible universe.  She  had  seen  gifted  women  and 
beautiful  women  and  women  both  gifted  and  beauti- 
ful totally  impotent  where  a  shop  girl,  with  a  conscious 
value  of  her  sex,  was  omnipotent.  As  she  gradually 
took  to  herself  the  never-changing  and  ever-effectual 
truth,  Ross'  feeling  for  her  deepened  to  deferential 
devotion.  In  little  things  and  large  he  showed  his 
growing  devotion;  but  in  nothing  did  he  show  it  so 
much  as  When  Laura  asked  him  one  day: 

"Where  is  Clarence  Protony?  I  have  not  seen  him 
for  a  long  time." 

It  was  an  unexepected  question;  before  he  an- 
swered an  odd  cast  fell  in  his  eye  and  his  head  hung 
quietly.  "He's  gone  over  to  the  other  hotel."  His 
attitude  told  Laura  clearly:  "My  jealousy  sent  him 
to  the  other  hotel." 


CHAPTER  XXIH. 

THE  INTEUDEE  TEIUMPHANT. 

His  love  and  jealousy  showed  themselves  in  other 
ways.  He  wished  to  know  where  she  had  been  when 
he  failed  to  find  her  in  the  hotel.  He  came  to  ask  her 
directly  and  was  wounded  when  she  gave  a  careless 
or  evasive  reply.  He  became  disparaging  in  his  ob- 
servations of  Favorim  and  the  other  young  men  of 
the  company;  he  even  had  an  unkind  word  for  Carl 
Gars — "they  are  all  free  lances  and  a  woman  who 
respects  herself  must  be  on  her  guard."  Her  room 
was  changed  several  times.  Again,  Ross  insisted  that 
she  take  a  larger  room  on  the  same  etage  with  his 
apartments.  Then  he  arranged  to  take  luncheon  and 
dinner  with  her  every  day.  Finally  came  a  vital  pro- 
posal :  he  offered  to  escort  her  to  and  from  the  theatre. 
She  accepted  with  an  air  of  studied  indifference.  Even 
this  closer  surveilance  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  re- 
mained until  the  curtain  went  up  and  returned  half 
an  hour  before  it  fell.  The  newspaper  notices  of  her, 
which  were  now  uniformly  favorable,  displeased  him. 
The  criticisms  of  her  work  did  not  affect  him  so  much 
as  the  complimentary  green  room  gossip.  One  item  in 
praise  of  her  sunny  disposition,  her  popularity  with 
everybody  around  the  theatre,  her  charitable  nature, 
moved  him  to  condemn  the  whole  brood  of  journalists : 
"They  are  all  grafters  in  one  way  or  another.  They 
never  write  up  anything  without  expecting  to  get  some- 
thing for  it.  I  wouldn't  talk  to  them  if  I  were  you." 

Laura  perceived  this  passion  rising  and  intensify- 
ing from  day  to  day.  The  subtle  flattery  which  every 
woman  feels  in  creating  that  ruling  sensation  in  men 
was  not  full  compensation  for  the  acute  perturbation 
of  mind  actuated  by  the  situation.  She  was  determined 

(816) 


THE  INTRUDES  TRIUMPHANT.  217 

not  to  yield  after  the  manner  of  weaker  or  inexperi- 
enced women,  although  yet  undetermined  what  answer 
to  make  should  he  propose  marriage.  She  knew  as  well 
as  a  woman  may— which  in  such  a  case  is  knowing— 
that  his  passion  was  become  uncontrollable;  that  he 
must  make  an  end  either  by  declaring  himself  or 
permanently  avoid  her.  She  hoped— she  hardly  knew 
what.  There  was  to  one  side  material  security.  Ross' 
affluence  was  augmenting  rapidly;  he  was  already 
wealthy.  His  influence  was  widening.  There  was 
every  promise  that  he  would  become  a  considerable  fac- 
tor in  New  York's  affairs.  On  the  other  side,  there 
was  no  love  on  her  part— perhaps,  all  said,  affection 
for  men  had  been  blighted  in  her  by  experience.  She 
neither  liked  nor  disliked  him.  This  had  its  advant- 
ages—and disadvantages.  There  could  be  no  soul- 
tearing  moments,  for  her,  if  he  proved  delinquent. 
But  how  would  she  stand  with  her  art?  Her  love  for 
it  had  deepened  since  her  introduction  to  its  rarer 
atmosphere.  Her  understanding  of  it  had  become 
broader,  clearer.  She  certainly  would  not  renounce 
it  in  any  circumstances.  And  yet — and  yet  through 
all  these  considerations  the  instinctive  want  of  her  sex 
for  a  male  companion  or  protector  would  ebb  and  flow 
according  to  her  mood  or  state  of  nerves. 

"With  Ross  there  were  no  doubts,  no  hesitations, 
no  misgivings,  no  subtleties.  He  had  sufficient  pene- 
tration to  know  that  Laura  would  entertain  only  one 
proposal  and  he  had  decided  that  he  would  have  her 
if  he  could  on  that  condition;  and  he  instinctively 
chose  the  right  moment.  Calling  for  Laura  at  the 
theatre  as  usual  one  night  he  found  her  put  out:  it 
was  a  mixture  of  chagrin,  dejection  and  exasperation. 
Protony  had  again  given  way  to  the  tension  on  nerve 
and  brain  which  constant  thought  on  one  idea  brings; 
he  had  sent  a  note  pathetically  pleading  for  a  recon- 
ciliation. Perley  had  weakened  one  of  the  scenes  and 
a  quarrel  had  ensued.  Favorim  had  renewed  his  an- 
noying attentions  regardless  of  his  wife's  surveilance. 

"When  in  the  carriage  he  asked:  "Aren't  you  feel- 
ing well  ? "  He  was  about  to  affix  ' '  Laura ' '  but  checked 


218  THE  INTRUDER  TRIUMPHANT. 

himself.  To  that  time  he  had  used  neither  "Miss 
Darnby"  nor  "Laura." 

"I'm  well,  but  those  people  at  the  theatre  have  a 
diabolical  way  of  putting  me  out." 

A  pause,  which  Ross  broke  slowly  and  in  a  low 
voice:  "Laura,  you  know  how  I  feel  toward  you.  Will 
you  have  me?"  He  took  her  hand. 

There  had  been  something  in  the  silence  preceding 
his  declaration  which  had  prepared  her.  She  gave  no 
immediate  indication  of  acceptance.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments, as  if  quite  unconsciously,  she  leaned  her  head 
upon  his  shoulder.  He  encircled  her  waist,  and  kissed 
her,  not  so  much  in  passion  as  in  the  joy  of  possessing 
that  which  might  have  eluded  him. 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  way  to  the  hotel. 
This  time  he  escorted  her  to  the  door  of  her  room, 
where  he  again  kissed  her  with  a  "Good  night."  She 
returned  the  "Good  night" — and  these  were  the  first 
words  she  had  spoken  from  the  moment  of  the  proposal. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ART  BEFORE  MATRIMONY. 

Her  awakening  thought  was  not  of  Ross,  but  of 
the  responsibilities  and  perplexities  of  the  engagement. 
She  lay  in  bed  thinking,  thinking.  One  idea  was  dom- 
inant, determined :  She  would  not  give  up  the  theatre. 
She  would  not  permit  marriage  to  interfere  with  her 
art,  her  aspirations.  By  degrees  ambition  had  per- 
vaded her;  the  unnamable  fascination  of  the  footlights 
had  imperceptibly  enveloped  her;  by  insensible  grada- 
tion she  had  lifted  herself  from  the  paltry  cares,  the 
paltry  miseries,  the  carking  annoyances  of  the  con- 
ventional life.  Her  indifference  to  them  had  been  sim- 
ultaneous with  her  steadily  augmenting  interest  in 
the  theatre.  From  the  resolve  not  to  let  matrimony 
thwart  her  independence  there  followed  a  stronger 
resolution  to  utilize,  if  possible,  her  changed  social 
condition  as  a  furtherance  to  her  professional  stand- 
ing. The  yielding  mood,  the  leaning  tendency  of  the 
day  before  when  her  nerves  were  weakened  by  the 
work  and  importunities  on  the  stage  and  by  the  night, 
were  gone.  The  rest  and  the  daylight  had  restored 
her  to  herself  as  she  would  be. 

While  she  was  making  her  toilet,  at  ten  o'clock, 
the  usual  hour  with  her,  a  bell  boy  brought  a  note 
from  Ross  addressed  "Dear  Laura,"  asking  her  what 
time  it  would  please  her  to  breakfast  with  him.  The 
implication  of  possession  in  the  address  struck  her 
disagreeably.  She  replied  on  the  same  paper:  "At 
10:30,  my  customary  hour,"  and  signed  it  L.  D. 

If  the  short  reply  had  ruffled  his  joyous  spirits 
there  was  no  sign  of  it  when  he  greeted  her  as  she 
stepped  from  the  lift.  His  complete  happiness  in- 
fected Laura  at  first,  but  soon  the  strain  of  restraint 

(219) 


220  ART  BEFOEE  MATEIMONY. 

became  so  pronounced  that  Ross  asked  in  accents  o? 
solicitude:  "Laura,  there  is  something  troubling  you. 
Tell  me  what  it  is.  Make  a  confidant  of  me. ' ' 

The  question  urged  her  to  have  an  understanding 
at  once.  "It  is  not  a  troublesome  thing  exactly.  It 
is  a  matter  that  we  should  have  discussed  and  decided 
before— before  I  consented  last  night."  She  paused 
to  formulate  her  position  when  he,  his  face  changing 
from  an  expression  of  contentment  to  nervous,  pinched 
anxiety,  asked: 

"What  is  it,  Laura?    What  is  it?" 

"If— when  we  marry— I  expect  to  continue  to  act 
and-" 

He  interrupted  in  a  tone  that  told  his  anxiety  had 
vanished:  "Why  to  be  sure  my  dear  girl.  I  thought 
out  a  plan  weeks  before  I  proposed  to  you.  I  talked 
it  over  with  Gars.  He  agreed  with  me  that  you  were 
too  much  engrossed  in  your  work  to  give  it  up  for 
anything  or  anybody.  So  we've  roughed  out  a  scheme 
to  star  you."  "Yes,  to  star  you,"  he  repeated,  noting 
her  look  of  genuine  surprise.  "It  depended,  of  course, 
upon  your  accepting  me  as  husband  "—this  with  a 
humorously  shrewd  smile— "but  I  insisted  that  your 
territory  should  be  confined  to  New  York  and  the  cities 
that  may  be  reached  in  a  few  hours— Boston,  Phila- 
delphia, Baltimore,  Washington.  You  anticipated 
me.  It  wias  the  very  thing  I  wanted  to  talk  over  with 
you  this  morning." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LATENT  JEALOUSIES  AFLAME. 

The  knowledge  of  the  engagement  was  confined 
to  three  persons— Laura,  Ross  and  Gars.  The  mar- 
riage was  not  known  until  the  day  following  the  cere- 
mony, when  it  was  proclaimed  in  the  sensational  press. 
To  everybody  it  was  a  surprise,  except  to  the  one 
whom  it  struck  vitally— Protony.  He  had  feared  that 
culmination.  It  was  the  dread,  the  gnawing  expectancy 
born  of  sensed  rather  than  perceived  danger;  a  tele- 
pathic jealousy,  for  he  had  no  visual  evidence  of 
Ross'  intentions;  the  ostensible  facts  made  for  the  re- 
verse of  what  had  actually  occurred.  A  guest  at  one 
of  Ross'  hotels,  Laura,  Protony  thought,  was  at  the 
furthest  a  circumstantial  possibility  of  a  relation  the 
contrary  of  licit.  Protony  was  not  even  aware  that 
Ross'  influence  had  made  Laura  a  member  of  Gars' 
company.  In  cool  reflection  he  had  concluded  that 
Laura  at  the  Waldborough  Hotel  was  the  result  of 
her  association  with  the  Gars  Company,  instead  of  vice 
versa.  That  indefinable  sense  which  is  not  of  the  five 
defined  faculties,  but  lies  in  the  deep  covered  well 
called  the  sub-conscious,  had  acted  as  a  precursive 
agent.  Yet  the  premonition  did  not  temper  him  to 
the  anguish  of  the  morning.  Though  he  read  the  gar- 
ishly written  news  without  astonishment— he  read  it 
as  something  that  had  been  inevitable— the  forewarn- 
ing could  not  forefend  the  torture  that  began  directly 
the  paper  slipped  from  his  clammy  hand.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  swallowed  a  collapsing  poison.  He  conceived 
a  mortal  hatred  for  Laura;  then  for  Ross;  then  for 
both.  The  hate  changed  quickly  to  a  passion  for  her 
—a  passion  whose  glow  was  intensified  by  long  pass- 
ivity and  whose  virulence  harked  back  to  the  feeling 


222  LATENT  JEALOUSIES  AFLAME. 

that  had  overpowered  him  when  she  refused  reconcil- 
iation, following  their  first  quarrel. 

His  inflamed  imagination  continued  to  picture  Ross 
and  Laura  in  conjugal  relations  and  the  vision  threw 
him  into  spasms  of  jealousy,  a  jealousy  which  he  had 
supposed  to  the  moment  of  hearing  of  Laura's  mar- 
riage had  become  innocuous.  It  would  be  unbearable 
torture  for  him  to  remain  in  the  Gars  Company,  where 
he  must  see  her,  must  hear  her  voice  night  after  night. 
He  had  decided  to  resign  when  Perley,  by  a  remark, 
stayed  his  intentions:  "Your  friend,  Laura  Darnby, 
leaves  us  this  week.  Gars  will  star  her.  Sidney  Rose- 
bed  will  write  a  play  around  her." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

REALIZING  A  DREAM. 

The  character  of  the  play  which  Sidney  Rosebud  had 
been  commissioned  to  write  was  left  to  the  judgment 
of  that  shock-haired,  spectacled  individual.  The  play- 
wright called  but  twice  on  Laura.  The  first  time  "to 
get  a  line  on  her  temperament, "  as  he  phrased  it.  The 
second  time— this  was  a  week  later,  after  she  had  re- 
signed—he had  the  plot  and  the  characters  outlined. 
The  scheme  of  the  drama  Laura  thought  had  very 
familiar  ear-marks;  the  locale  of  the  first  act  was  in 
the  interior  of  Missouri.  Laura  would  have  an  admirer 
and  lover.  The  admirer  was  from  New  York,  who 
"happened"  in  the  Western  town;  a  handsome  man 
whose  deportment  was  elegant  and  whose  clothes 
were  irreproachable.  The  lover,  a  farmer's  son;  good, 
upright,  sincere ;  quite  poor  and  no  prospects.  Laura 
would  love  the  New  Yorker,  who  could  not  fully  recip- 
rocate her  affection  because  of  her  social  inferiority. 
An  uncle  in  the  Klondyke  would  die  leaving  her  sev- 
eral millions.  There  would  be  a  change  of  scene  to 
New  York  City  showing  Laura  in  an  apothosis  of  afflu- 
ence and  social  brilliancy  courted  by  troops  of  fash- 
ionable men,  the  most  ardent  being  the  New  Yorker, 
who  had  jilted  her  in  Missouri.  She  brings  the  New 
Yorker  to  his  knees,  rejects  him  sheerly,  returns  to 
Missouri  and  marries  the  farmer's  son. 

Rosebed  read  the  surprised  disapproval  on  Laura's 
face.  But  he  explained  with  plausible  volubility  that  the 
plot  was  nothing.  He  would  fill  the  play  with  stirring 
incidents,  with  tense  situations.  The  dialogue,  he 
assured  her,  would  be  epigrammatic  throughout,  especi- 
ally in  the  New  York  acts,  where  there  would  be  an 
exceptional  opportunity  for  attractive  scenery  and  cos- 

(828) 


224  EEALIZING  A  DREAM. 

tumes.  But  the  crude  improbability,  the  crass  conven- 
tionality of  the  story  shocked  Laura.  She  protested 
to  Ross,  who  sent  Gars  to  her.  The  manager  was  per- 
emptory in  his  decision.  ' '  You  don 't  want  to  handicap 
yourself  with  an  unconventional  play  at  the  start,  do 
you?  Just  let  Rosebed  and  me  launch  you.  After 
that  you  may  indulge  your  fads  and  fancies  as  you 
please.  I  want  to  make  you  a  success,  but  I  can't  do 
it  unless  you  submit  to  the  usual  thing,  the  usual 
process.  Remember  that  success  in  the  theatrical  busi- 
ness depends  upon  brokers,  brokers'  wives,  shopkeep- 
ers, clerks  and  shop  girls  and  not  on  two  or  three 
literary  cranks  with  so-called  'advanced  ideas.'  I 
know  what  you  would  like;  your  idea  would  be  to 
call  that  fellow  Ringold  in  and  write  something  after 
the  manner  of  those  German  or  Norwegian  faddists. 
For  God's  sake  get  Mrs.  McDonald  out  of  your  head 
for  awhile.  She  had  to  start  as  you  are  going  to  start. 
It  was  not  until  ten  years  later  when  she  had  been 
taken  up  by  society  that  she  could  go  in  for  this  realistic 
or  naturalistic  fad  or  whatever  you  call  it.  The  pub- 
lic doesn't  accept  her  because  of  herself  or  her  play, 
but  because  she  is  or  was  a  social  rage.  You  haven't 
got  to  that  yet;  so  meanwhile  you  had  better  please 
the  public.  Rosebed  will  fit  you  all  right  in  the  mat- 
ter of  play.  I'll  do  the  rest.  You  see  how  clever 
Rosebed  is  to  have  thought  of  placing  the  first  acts 
in  the  state  where  you  were  born.  That  will  give  my 
press  agent  a  chance  to  send  out  some  interesting  gossip 
about  you.  Then  you'll  have  to  go  to  Paris— don't  jump ; 
yes,  to  Paris  for  your  costumes  for  the  New  York 
scene.  You  could  get  them  here  in  New  York,  but 
the  trip  abroad  for  that  purpose  will  mean  about  a 
column  with  your  picture,  in  all  the  papers,  a  lot  of 
descriptive  cablegrams  when  you  are  in  Paris  and 
again  a  column  with  your  picture  when  you  return. 
I  would  rather  have  such  reading  matter  than  columns 
upon  columns  of  favorable  criticism.  A  favorable  or 
unfavorable  critique  doesn't  matter  either  way.  Good 
or  bad  reviews  from  a  professional  critic  never  made 
or  unmade  a  play  or  an  actor.  It's  the  popular  gos- 


REALIZING  A  DREAM.  225 

sip  about  the  play  or  an  actor  that  counts.  On  the 
first  night  of  a  production— before  the  critics  have 
written  a  word— I  can  tell  you  within  fifty  dollars 
what  the  week's  receipts  will  be.  So  you  see  we  must 
make  a  right  beginning.  The  rest  will  be  easy.  But 
for  Heaven's  sake  don't  interfere  with  any  of  our 
'literary  principles.'  Get  literature  out  of  your  head 
until  hard  times  come.  So  long  as  the  country  is  pros- 
perous the  people  will  pay  any  money  for  any  kind 
of  show;  all  they  need  is  to  have  their  attention  at- 
tracted by  advertising— free  ads  and  paid  ads.  When 
general  business  is  at  a  low  ebb,  why  then  the  good  thing 
only  can  live.  But  we  haven 't  come  to  that.  We  must 
make  a  first-class  star  out  of  you  while  we  can.  Trust 
to  me  and  Rosebed.  And  by  the  way"— this  as  he  took 
his  hat  as  a  signal  of  conclusion— "don't  take  an  ac- 
tress friend  with  you  to  Paris,  no  matter  how  insig- 
nificant her  reputation  may  be.  The  foreign  corre- 
spondents and  the  reporters  here  might  mention  her. 
We  don 't  want  to  detract  attention  from  you.  I  don 't 
suppose  that  Ross  will  be  able  to  go  with  you,  so  I 
suggest  that  you  engage  a  bright  maid— a  negress  if 
possible— or  a  quiet  elderly  woman." 

Paris  had  banished  everything  else  from  her  mind. 
She  heard  not  a  word  of  his  advice  after  that.  Paris ! 
The  name  aroused  a  dream  latent  in  her  from  the  day 
she  first  took  in  hand  a  French  primer.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  realize  that  she  was  approaching  a  realization 
which  had  always  been  to  her  and  to  all  women  of  super- 
ior intellect  and  inferior  fortune  a  beatitude  so  distant 
in  perspective  that  it  seemed  impossible  of  attainment. 
For  a  moment  she  forgot  her  marriage  to  Ross,  the 
mass  of  congratulatory  letters  and  telegrams  heaped 
on  the  table;  forgot  her  prospective  position  in  the 
profession;  and  Gars  and  Rosebed  and  Ringold  and 
Mrs.  McDonald— everything.  Her  first  matter-of-fact 
thought  came  when  Gars  mentioned  a  companion. 
Rebecca,  Carr,  Vendome— no,  they  were  rejected  as  fast 
as  thought  suggested  them.  Though  they  had  been  dis- 
engaged they  would  meet  Gars'  elemental  objection  of 
having  nobody  who  might  divert  attention  from  her. 


226  REALIZING  A  DREAM. 

She  conned  the  mass  of  felicitations— telegrams 
from  all  manner  of  people;  managers,  actors,  hotel 
keepers,  wine  merchants,  tailors,  modistes.  She  knew 
very  few  of  them.  Ross  knew  some;  Gars  probably 
laiew  them  all.  Eebecca  and  Carr  had  sent  telegrams. 
From  her  mother  a  long  letter.  From  her  father  and 
Protony  nothing.  In  looking  over  these  notes  and 
dispatches  she  discovered  how  limited  was  her  ac- 
quaintance, how  very  few  her  lasting  friends.  Her 
parents  and  Ross  and  Rebecca  Rosenau;  Gars  and  Ida 
Vendome  perhaps— these  were  all.  Cities  were  wil- 
dernesses after  all,  and  the  larger  the  city  the  fewer 
the  intimacies. 

Mrs.  Quincy!  The  very  companion  if  she  could  be 
persuaded  to  go.  Action  followed  the  thought.  Laura 
drove  over  to  Forty-second  Street  at  once.  Mrs.  Quincy 
was  overwhelmed  with  the  proposal.  From  agitation 
and  confusion  there  ensued  alternate  gusts  of  trans- 
ports and  despair.  The  chance  of  re-living  a  few 
months  of  her  twentieth  year,  however  distantly  or 
vicariously,  threw  her  into  ecstacy — for,  to  Laura's 
amazement,  Mrs.  Quincy  had  been  in  Paris  forty  years 
ago;  the  seemingly  sheer  impossibility  of  leaving  her 
house  and  lodgers  for  a  month  threw  her  into  the  oppo- 
site extreme.  A  council  of  her  maids  was  held.  The 
girls  urged  her  to  go.  One  of  them,  Stella,  was  chosen 
landlady  pro  tern. 

It  was  final  then  that  Mrs.  Quincy  would  go  as 
Laura's  duenna,  a  choice  that  Ross— who  had  not  con- 
sulted with  Laura  about  the  trip  until  she  returned 
from  Forty-second  Street— approved.  He  added  that 
when  Gars  had  made  the  suggestion  his  only  concern 
was  the  selection  of  a  suitable  companion,  for  in  the 
busy  state  of  his  affairs  it  was  out  of  the  question  for 
him  to  go. 


CHAPTER  XXVU. 

THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

On  the  day  set  for  sailing  the  press  told  of  Carl 
Gars'  plans  for  Laura  Darnby— the  Ross  was  not  af- 
fixed. She  would  sail  that  day  on  La  Provence  for 
Havre  en  route  for  Paris,  where  an  elaborate  order 
for  gowns  would  be  placed  with  Chevet— the  famous 
Chevet,  the  tailor  of  queens  and  empresses.  In  the 
meanwhile  Gars  would  engage  Miss  Darnby 's  support 
and  Rosebed  finish  the  domestic  drama  written  for 
Miss  Darnby,  who  had  stipulated  that  Rebecca  Rosenau 
and  Miss  Carr  must  be  members  of  her  company; 
accordingly,  at  no  little  sacrifice,  Mr.  Gars  had  ar- 
ranged to  have  these  ladies  released  from  their  con- 
tracts with  Roland  Marshall  and  Sol  Runnels.  A  two- 
column  width  picture  of  Laura  accentuated  the  mana- 
gerial accent  of  the  article,  which,  however,  had  the 
effect  of  bringing  a  few  of  Ross'  acquaintances  and  ad- 
mirers of  actresses  and  many  idlers  to  the  dock. 

Without  these  Laura  had  not  known  which  of  the 
serried  docks  was  busied  with  the  departure  of  a  trans- 
atlantic liner.  The  Latin  people  soon  made  it  strik- 
ingly obvious.  Not  that  the  preparations  were  con- 
sciously spectacular.  Never  were  'longshoremen  and 
travellers  and  their  friends  less  self-conscious.  But 
the  buoyant  temper  of  employees  and  passengers  made 
this  strip  of  the  harbor  a  scene  of  complex  and  mer- 
curial animation  and  enlivened  the  low,  lymphatic 
architecture  of  the  sea-station.  The  awesome  and  for- 
bidding aspect  of  the  rafters  was  relieved  by  the  gayety 
of  fluttering  flags  from  aloft.  The  roar  of  trucks  on 
sullen  planks  was  mitigated  by  commands  voiced  in 
a  melodious  tongue;  the  oppressive  impression  made 
by  the  prosaic  commodities  of  commerce,  in  deadly 


228  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

dull  arrays  of  boxes  and  bales,  was  eased  by  the  high- 
hued  gowns  of  the  gesticulating  women  in  whose  dark 
visages  were  eyes  reluscent  as  pools  at  eventide.  These 
orbs  at  the  first  sign  to  go  aboard  were  immersed  in 
tears.  Parting  words  were  broken  by  sobs.  Embrace 
after  embrace  was  exchanged  and  the  emotional  scene 
was  emphasized  by  gray-beards  kissing  one  another 
with  the  farewell  fervency  of  school  girls.  In  Laura's 
group  there  was  no  weeping;  there  were  many  hand- 
shakes—mainly with  people  who  Laura  saw  for  the 
first  time — and  voluble  wishes  for  a  happy  voyage. 
Mrs.  Quincy's  girls  and  lodgers  were  far  more  moved 
than  Laura's  well-wishers;  there  were  wet  eyes  here, 
but  a  high-tensioned  cheerfulness  pervaded  all,  which 
expressed  itself  in  a  dheer  when  Ross,  Laura  and  Mrs 
Quincy  crossed  the  gang  plank  to  the  steamer. 

Ross  had  arranged  everything  to  perfection.  The 
best  state-room  was  secured.  He  had  directed  the 
New  York  agent's  special  attention  to  Laura,  who  was 
on  board  waiting  to  introduce  her  to  the  commander, 
a  bulky  muscular  sailor,  bearded  like  a  primitive  Teu- 
ton, with  no  characteristics  of  the  popular  conception 
of  a  Frenchman  except  the  thick  accent  when  he  spoke 
English.  At  the  final  signal  Ross  gave  Laura  letters 
of  introduction  from  Gars  to  several  correspondents 
of  American  newspapers,  to  authors  and  to  Chevet.  He 
gave  her  only  one  kiss,  but  it  was  prolonged  and  fer- 
vent; the  pressure  of  his  hand  and  the  fervor  of  his 
lips  told  her  that  she  had  aroused  in  him  all  the  pow- 
erful though  incompletely  refined  affection  such  men 
possess.  He  was  the  last  to  leave  the  steamer,  and 
immediately  the  plank  was  hauled  in  there  was  a  per- 
ceptible rumble  in  the  immense  shed  that  sounded  ab- 
solutely like  thunder;  it  was  made  by  the  rush  of  feet 
to  the  extreme  end  of  the  landing,  where  a  band 
had  intoned  an  inspiriting  march  which  Laura  recog- 
nized as  Metra's  "Volontier."  The  leaping  tones — 
measures  that  inspired  joyous  courage— \had  an  im- 
provised accompaniment  of  a  choral  character.  The 
chorus  came  from  French,  Italian,  Spanish  and  Ameri- 
can throats  that  cheered  two  words  in  four  accents: 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  229 

"Bon  Voyage."  The  wish  was  expressed  in  full 
chested  voices  and  was  stressed  by  the  mad  waving 
of  men's  hats  of  every  conceivable  shape  and  fashion 
and  of  women's  handkerchiefs.  Ross  was  at  the  very 
front  of  the  agitated  mass  of  humanity;  behind  him 
Gars,  and  back  of  Gars  Boss'  many,  motley  acquaint- 
ances. 

But  who  was  that  in  the  forward  line,  at  the  other 
end  from  Ross,  half-concealed  by  the  rope's  stump, 
upon  which  one  of  his  elbows  rested?  Protony!  He 
and  one  more  were  the  silent  exceptions  in  the  cheer- 
ing crowd.  For  a  full  minute  Laura  had  eyes  for  none 
but  him,  who  had  been  much  and  now  was  nothing 
to  her.  He  saw  that  she  recognized  him,  but  he  had 
not  the  force  to  assume  other  than  he  was:  broken 
spirited;  a  drawn,  wan  face  expressing  hopelessly  de- 
jection, utter  melancholy  and  a  gnawing  heart. 

T^he  other  exception  stood  midway  between  Ross 
and  Protony;  a  slouchy,  half-drunken,  unshaven,  leer- 
ing figure.  At  sight  of  Darnby,  Laura  had  no  emo- 
tion whatever.  Her  gaze  returned  quickly  to  Ross,  to 
whose  now  mute  salutation  she  continued  to  respond 
exuberantly. 

When  distance  had  subdued  the  vociferousness  of 
the  adieux  the  multi-hued  crowd  suggested  a  huge 
fluttering  bouquet,  endowed  for  a  moment  with  vocal 
power.  Gradually  individuals  became  indistinguish- 
able ;  they  were  welded  in  a  mass — in  a  throng  which, 
in  growing  smaller,  became  mute  and  immutable ;  pres- 
ently it  was  a  vague  spot,  anon  it  disappeared  en- 
tirely. 

Then  Laura  looked  about  on  board.  The  glow  of 
excitement  had  faded  from  faces;  they  had  saddened 
as  land  diminished  into  a  shore  line  on  the  horizon 
into  which  it  had  slowly  vanished. 

A  woman  of  commanding  presence,  tall,  strong,  a 
face  firm  but  not  unwomanly,  who  had  came  on  board 
unattended,  was  quietly  weeping.  She  was  contained, 
Laura  had  noticed— the  agitation  of  departure  had  not 
suspended  Laura's  developing  power  of  observation 
—while  the  ship  was  in  harbor ;  but  now  that  land  had 


230  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

disappeared  she  could  not  master  her  feelings.  There 
had  been  none  to  say  adieu.  She  was  alone.  Who 
was  she?  The  steamer  stopped.  The  big  Yankee  pilot 
who  had  given  orders  in  a  high,  authoritative  tone, 
descended  into  a  lunging  boat.  The  Latin  officers  bade 
him  good-by  effusively.  He  responded  with  a  curt  flap 
of  the  hand,  his  back  turned. 

The  pilot's  departure  seemed  to  be  a  signal  for  a 
quick  change  among  the  crew  and  passengers.  Mon- 
sieur le  commandant  doffed  his  parade  uniform  for  the 
clothes  of  a  hard  working  sailor.  He  appeared  less 
ceremonious,  but  more  commanding.  Instead  of  shak- 
ing his  hand  the  French  travellers  lifted  their  yacht 
caps  as  they  passed  him.  The  more  part  of  the  passen- 
gers, their  friends  out  of  sight  and  hearing— and  per- 
haps out  of  mind— in  selfish  haste  rushed  to  secure  a 
comfortable  voyage.  They  cadged  for  a  seat  at  the 
Captain's  table,  for  their  bath,  for  a  good  position 
for  their  steamer  chair.  Women  changed  their  gowns, 
men  their  garments.  Within  an  hour  there  was  less 
color  on  deck  and  a  total  subsidence  of  excitement. 
Laura,  leaving  all  material  care  and  details  to  Mrs. 
Quincy,  remained  at  the  bulwarks. 

When  the  pilot  was  gone— when  he  was  out  of 
sight— a  presentment  of  the  sea's  solitude,  a  prevision 
of  its  grandeur  came  upon  her.  Though  the  waters 
were  still  green,  a  sign  that  the  ship  was  not  yet  float- 
ing over  the  ocean's  greatest  depths;  though  the  sun, 
unobscured  by  a  cloud,  warmed  the  blood  and  bright- 
ened the  scene,  a  circular  look  at  the  horizon— offer- 
ing not  an  acre  of  earth,  not  a  yard  of  sail— gave  her 
a  sense  of  the  sublime  desolation  of  the  sea. 

She  was  rudely  aroused  by  a  man  who  tottered 
to  the  bulwarks,  his  face  a  map  of  anguish.  Laura 
then  noticed  that  several  passengers,  men  and  women, 
were  at  the  ship's  side  in  the  throes  of  sea  sickness. 
Laura  had  not  thought  of  such  a  distressing  possi- 
bility. She  turned  away.  The  sight  made  her  unsure 
of  herself.  Her  condition  was  voiced  to  precision  by 
tftie  pretty  girl  in  front  of  her,  who  murmured:  "Je 
sens  que  ga  commence,"  a  simple  expression,  but  how 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  231 

exactly  and  yet  subtly  it  expressed  the  fear  of  the 
initial  stage  of  the  physical  malaise.  She  repeated  the 
almost  colloquial  expression:  "Je  sens  que  ga  com- 
mence." But  the  feeling  did  not  go  further  with  her, 
Mrs.  Quincy,  nine  or  ten  of  the  Latin  people  and  her- 
self were  unaffected.  Toward  evening  the  general 
trial— the  test  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest— had  ended. 
The  unfit  were  few,  the  fit  many.  Among  the  sea- 
worthy to  whom  Laura  was  introduced  was  a  priest, 
whose  elevated  character  was  mirrored  in  a  pale  and 
mobile  face,  expressing  the  final  thought  in  piety  and 
sincerity;  a  Canadian— visually  a  James  G.  Elaine — 
who  had  not  permitted  a  vast  commercial  business  to 
destroy  a  deep  love  of  music  and  literature.  A  Paris 
merchant  who  talked  like  an  artist;  a  French  artist 
who  talked  like  a  hunter ;  a  French  lawyer  who  quoted 
beautiful  sentiments;  an  Italian  pianist— small  as  a 
thumb  and  nervous  as  an  aspen  leaf— whose  mind  when 
not  at  the  piano  was  haunted  by  a  liberal  income  and 
who  spoke  of  nothing  but  high,  interest  paying  mort- 
gages; an  English  actress  who  traduced  the  French 
language  mercilessly,  dressed  dowdily  and  recited 
poetry  divinely;  a  Hebrew  banker  whose  smallness  of 
stature  was  requited  by  largeness  of  fortune,  who  com- 
pensated an  aggressive  manner  and  acute  inquisitive- 
ness  by  a  deep  devotion  to  a  pursy  and  dumpish  wife 
and  three  disenchanting  daughters;  two  Germans,  one 
who  spoke  the  German  of  Luxemburg;  the  other,  the 
German  of  Austria ;  several  Englishmen ;  a  few  Ameri- 
cans; a  doctor,  Mons.  Paquin,  his  wife,  and  a  Madame 
Volney.  Lastly  Mons.  Chicard,  a  professor  of  French 
in  a  New  York  college. 

Before  dinner  Laura  had  one  prejudice  less ;  was  cor- 
rected of  a  cant  idea;  that  beneath  Latin  politeness 
everything  was  hollow.  Her  quickened  perception, 
her  trained  observation  told  her  these  people  were 
sincerely  amiable,  that  their  supposed  volatileness  was 
a  matter  of  temperament;  they  were  nervously  quick 
witted,  conversational,  mercurial ;  their  volubility  was 
physical,  not  mental.  Laura  involuntarily  compared 
them  with  the  few  Anglo-Saxons  on  board  j  how  stolid 


232  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

and  stilted,  how  pompous,  how  self-conscious  were  her 
people!  The  Latins  were  frank,  free,  companiona- 
ble. She  read  their  individual  characters  readily. 
Their  beliefs,  their  hopes,  their  fears  were  as  an  open 
book.  Withal,  they  were  not  intrusive,  not  familiar; 
they  were,  to  the  contrary,  tactful  and  discreet  and  ever 
polite.  They  had  the  fine  intuition  of  children— they 
knew  to  whom  to  address  themselves  and  how  far. 
To  the  sympathetic  they  were  whole-souled;  to  others 
they  were  finely  reserved  or  suggestive  in  an  elevated 
sense.  Laura,  known  almost  immediately  as  an  actress, 
appealed  to  them  at  once.  The  women  wished  to  be 
her  friend.  Finding  it  was  her  first  voyage  they  made 
suggestions,  offered  to  assist  her.  The  men  showed 
their  admiration,  made  way  for  her  everywhere,  were 
courteously  companionable  or  deferential,  according  to 
Laura's  mood  or  demeanor;  the  women  were  motherly 
or  sisterly  according  to  their  age. 

Mons.  Chicard  was  exceptional  —  momentarily. 
One  evening  while  Laura  was  alone  on  deck  Mons. 
Chicard 's  attention  crossed  the  line  which  divides 
formal  acquaintance  from  informal  friendship.  She 
then  provided  herself  with  the  usual  shield  of  disap- 
probation in  which  at  the  first  sign  of  the  insinuation 
of  familiarity  in  men  she  would  suffer  them  to  dissolve 
in  their  own  humiliation.  This  was  effective;  it  also 
was  an  object  lesson  to  others  who  might  have  wished 
to  emulate  Mons.  Chicard.  Thenceforth  she  was  im- 
mune from  masculine  annoyances,  was  free  to  continue 
her  observations,  to  study  the  little  comedies  and 
tragedies  about  her.  There  was  an  element  of  both 
comedy  and  tragedy  in  the  affair  of  Mme.  Volney  and 
Paquin. 

The  former  was  decidedly  handsome.  Her  phys- 
ical charms— she  was  commandingly  tall  with  pro- 
nounced contours— were  of  an  ostentatious  type.  Mme. 
Paquin 's  attractions  were  not,  on  the  contrary,  extrin- 
sic. She  was  tall  and  somewhat  shriven,  making  an 
extraordinary  contrast  to  her  husband,  a  big,  healthy, 
muscular  fellow  who  soon  was  drawn  to  Mme.  Volney. 
They  were  placed  vis  a  vis  in  the  dining  hall.  Their 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  233 

mutual  admiration  soon  induced  them  to  seek  each 
other's  society  in  the  salon  and  on  the  promenade 
deck.  For  neglecting  to  endow  Mme.  Paquin  with  an 
engaging  personality,  Providence's  requital  was  an 
acute  perception  combined  with  determination.  She 
quickly  perceived  Mons.  Paquin 's  attentions  and  Mme. 
Volney 's  intentions.  But  she  appeared  so  unmindful 
that  the  passengers  who  had  noticed  the  attachment 
concluded  that  Mms.  Paquin  was  not  jealous. 

This  conclusion  was  modified  by  an  embarassing 
incident.  It  appeared  that  on  the  third  afternoon  out 
Mme.  Paquin  told  the  doctor  she  would  not  care  to 
take  dinner  in  the  salle  a  manger  that  evening ;  as  her 
appetite  was  not  good  she  would  prefer  to  have  a  light 
luncheon  served  on  deck  a  1'  invalide.  This  proved  a 
stratagem  of  the  most  perfidious  character.  Hearing 
of  Mme.  Paquin 's  absence  Mme.  Volney  invited  the  doc- 
tor to  sit  beside  her  at  table.  At  about  a  quarter  after 
six  o'clock,  when  Mme.  Volney  and  Mons.  Paquin  had 
become  interested  in  each  other,  Mme.  Paquin  ap- 
peared most  unexpectedly  at  the  head  of  the  long  table. 
She  stood  there  a  full  minute— until  all  save  Mme. 
Volney  and  her  admirer  saw  her — and  her  face  told 
she  would  do  something  unusual. 

"Mme.  Volney!"  The  key  was  rather  high  and 
the  tone  somewhat  metallic.  Mme.  Volney  and  the 
doctor  looked  up.  The  former  flushed,  the  latter  paled 
— both  felt  the  premonition  of  the  calamity  which 
occurred  instantly,  delivered  in  French : 

"Mme.  Volney,  permit  me  to  solicit  a  favor  of  you. 
Please  leave  the  doctor  to  his  lawful  wife  and  legiti- 
mate children.  I  assure  you  that  I  appreciate  the  com- 
pliment you  imply  by  thinking  my  husband  a  charming 
man,  nevertheless  I  must  ask  you  to  indicate  your 
admiration  in  a  more  formal  manner  than  by  alienat- 
ing his  affections  from  me,  who  am  a  faithful  wife 
and  who  loves  the  doctor  more  sincerely  than  you  do." 

The  warning  was  uttered  in  a  perfectly  clear  voice 
—pitched,  perhaps,  a  little  above  the  medium  regis- 
ter—and everybody  seated  at  the  captain's  board 
caught  its  meaning.  Mme.  Volney  in  a  visible  degree 


234  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

understood  the  import  perfectly.  She  arose  quite 
agitated,  her  countenance  a  plain  reflection  of  her 
disturbed  and  painful  feeling,  and  walked  nervously 
to  the  door,  where  Mme.  Paquin,  with  ceremonious 
politeness,  stepped  aside  to  let  her  pass.  Then  Mme. 
Paquin  took  her  customary  place  beside  Monsieur: 
"I  am  feeling  better,  my  appetite  now  is  excellent; 
I  shall  dine  here  as  usual. ' ' 

The  doctor,  a  French  gentleman,  who  had  himself 
well  in  hand,  feigned  his  part  admirably.  He  was  all 
niceties  and  delicate  attention.  But  after  the  repast, 
as  he  crossed  the  door-sill,  his  features  stiffened  and 
their  expression  sombered.  Neither  he  nor  Madame 
were  seen  that  evening.  Mme.  Volney  was  not  visible 
until  the  second  day— she  had  a  state-room — following 
the  embarassing  incident.  She  then  appeared  for  a 
most  commendable  purpose — to  solicit  charity  for  an 
Italian  emigrant,  who  had  been  disqualified  for  admis- 
sion by  the  Emigrant  Commissioners.  The  rejected 
piece  of  humanity  was  below — an  old  woman  very  ill. 

Laura  went  down  between  decks  with  the  ship's 
physician.  In  descending  she  was  assailed  by  a  name- 
less odor— the  malodor  of  unkempt  misery,  of  unclean 
nudity.  Entering  the  steerage— in  appearance  a  sub- 
terranean arrangement,  low  and  dark  like  the  galleries 
of  a  mine— Laura  saw  a  mass  of  men,  women  and 
children  stretched  on  superposed  planks  or  swarming 
on  the  floor.  She  could  scarcely  distinguish  one  face 
from  another.  Near  the  extreme  end  there  was  a  bright 
light,  and  in  the  light  Laura  saw  the  face  of  the  priest 
bending  toward  the  lower  plank.  Approaching,  Laura 
distinguished  a  dozen  steerage  passengers,  heads  un- 
covered, on  their  knees  in  attitude  of  prayer.  A  voice 
reached  Laura's  ears  that  entered  her  nerves.  It  began 
in  a  moan  and  ended  in  a  wail.  The  low  gasps,  the 
strident  respiration  announced  suffering.  The  grating 
convulsions,  the  only  half-controlled  shrieks  told  of 
swiftly  recurring  transitions  from  uniform  pain  to  in- 
tense agony.  The  doctor  glanced  at  the  tortured  and 
writhing  bundle  of  wretched  flesh. 

"She  cannot  last  half  an  hour,"  he  said  and  turned 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  235 

away.  Laura  remained,  chained  by  keen  sympathy 
and  a  feeling  that  it  were  not  dutiful  to  desert  a  dying 
being,  though  a  complete  stranger.  Although  the  pro- 
fuse gray  hair,  disheveled,  hid  part  of  the  face,  Laura 
could  see  that  toil  and  moil,  anxiety,  worriment  and 
insufficient  nourishment,  general  neglect  of  the  body 
and  forced  starvation  of  the  soul  had  made  their  ruth- 
less impress  upon  the  face,  which  was  hard  featured 
and  deeply  seared.  Through  the  sounds  of  agony 
there  was  articulate  lamentation.  She  was  beseech- 
ing God  to  forgive  her  sins— she  who  had  experienced 
poverty  only  and  suffered  misery  throughout  her  toil- 
some life.  She  prayed  the  Lord  to  be  merciful— she 
who  had  found  the  world  so  merciless.  As  Laura  heard 
this  agonizing  invocation  to  the  Diety  from  a  hard- 
driven,  poverty-killed  creature,  whose  conscience, 
nevertheless,  was  so  vibrant  and  susceptible,  she — to 
whom  life  of  late  had  not  spoken  harshly— was  stirred 
to  consciousness  of  her  moral  responsibility. 

The  body  was  given  to  the  sea  next  day.  A  plank, 
a  shroud  and  a  shot— no  more.  But  it  was  a  funeral  that 
Laura  hoped  never  to  forget.  The  well-pursed,  well-fed 
and  well-groomed  passengers  preferred  the  salon,  their 
state  rooms  and  their  first-class  cabins  during  the  brief 
ceremony.  The  occupants  of  the  steerage  were  all 
present,  on  their  knees,  with  their  heads  bowed.  The 
words  of  the  priest's  prayer  were  moving;  they  were 
charged  with  an  hallowed  pathos  that  sank  into  the 
soul  of  the  soul.  He  was  so  calm,  so  sincere,  so  con- 
vincing, that  young  man  in  the  dark  garb,  and  his  pure 
face  seemed  as  if  illuminated  by  a  Light  from  Above 
as  he  signalled  the  sailors  to  offer  the  Rested  Spirit  to 
the  waters. 

A  concert  was  given  the  next  evening  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  Fisherman's  Life  Saving  Society.  Laura  was 
invited  to  give  a  recitation,  but  she  had  witnessed  death 
—had  felt  its  mystery  too  intimately,  too  recently,  to 
be  in  a  mood  to  participate  in  an  entertainment.  The 
programme  was  long  enough  without  Laura's  proposed 
contribution.  Mme.  Paquin  was  down  to  recite  "Love's 
Repentance".  The  Italian— who  was  director  of  the 


236  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

entertainment  and  who  heroically  presented  himseli 
with  the  final  number— his  own  arrangement  of  Saint- 
Saens'  "Le  Cygne"— complimented  Mme.  Volney  with 
two  selections,  Bach's  "Ave  Maria"  and  the  soprano 
part  in  the  trio  from  "Faust".  In  the  steerage  there 
was  found  a  violinist — a  youth  all  aglow  for  his  art, 
whose  view  did  not  descend  below  the  clouds— and 
among  the  second-classv passengers  a  contralto— a  voice 
deep,  rich,  finished  and  majestic— who  had  just  com- 
pleted a  winter 's  engagement  in  Montreal.  Laura  gave 
her  ticket  to  an  old  lady  travelling  between  decks, 
whose  refinement  of  countenance  and  gentle  deport- 
ment encouraged  the  general  fallacy  that  high  morality 
and  refined  sentiment  may  grow  out  of  harsh  social 
relations.  Laura  thought  it  were  better  to  be  on  deck 
alone  while  the  dining  room  was  filled  with  an  elabor- 
ately attired  audience  and  resounded  with  indiscrim- 
inate applause  to  well  or  ill  expressed  music  and  poetry. 
Laura  and  Mrs.  Quincy  went  forward  to  the  bow,  where 
she  could  see  the  steamer  part  the  waves  which  were 
subsiding  as  the  sun  disappeared.  The  gold  of  the 
West  was  turning  to  a  crimson  hue,  coloring  the  island- 
like  clouds  in  the  horizon.  From  dim  red  there  was  a 
change  to  vague  amber.  Suddenly  a  flash  of  purple, 
followed  by  a  streak  of  violet,  gradually  turning 
to  intense  blue.  It  was  night— the  gates  of  day  were 
now  closed.  Laura  turned  in  the  course  of  the  ship — 
toward  the  East.  An  immensity  of  darkness  dotted, 
above,  with  stars.  The  sea  was  black  and  hushed.  The 
silence  broken  only  by  the  throb  of  the  engines.  The 
winds  were  wholly  whist.  Looking  up  she  saw  the 
stars  appearing  rapidly;  they  shone  with  a  spectral 
lustre,  not  affected  by  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Right  ahead,  the  sister  beam  of  the  Pleiades  clustered 
together  and  at  their  view  Laura's  memory  harked 
back  to  her  school  days  when  she  had  studied  a  history 
containing  an  engraving  of  Columbus'  voyage.  The 
print  pictured  the  discoverer  on  board  at  night,  seated 
near  the  foremast  in  deep  meditation  under  a  celestial 
conclave  as  brilliant  as  it  was  to-night;  then,  as  now, 
a  meteor  would  blaze  for  a  moment  and  expire  in  the 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  237 

star^paved  courts  of  the  empyrean.  Just  then  the  wind 
veered:  A  melody,  haunting,  appealing,  moving,  came 
from  the  salon,  wafted  by  the  night  breeze.  The  air 
was  at  once  new  and  familiar ;  the  ear  had  never  heard 
it,  yet  it  was  known  to  the  heart.  Like  all  things  of 
beauty  which  are  responsive,  the  song  explained,  gave 
voice  to  something  fine,  latent  or  dormant  within 
Laura— something  she  had  often  felt  and  wished  to 
express.  The  little  Italian  pianist's  appreciation  of 
Saint-Saens'  "Le  Cygne"  lifted  Laura  from  the  definite 
anxieties  of  the  world  to  the  indefinite  hopes  of  a 
higher,  a  happier,  a  better  life. 

The  following  morning,  quite  early,  Laura  saw, 
vaguely  lying  in  the  extreme  distance  between  the  sky 
and  waters,  a  thing  dark,  misty  and  immovable. 

"Land!  France!"  some  one  cried. 

"Land,  yes,"  the  commander  rejoined,  "but  Eng- 
land, not  France— once  France,  but  now  England. 
Those  two  islands  are  all  that  William  the  Conqueror 
retained  of  France.  The  people  there  are  French  to 
the  marrow,  but  they  prefer  the  British  government  to 
ours."  Nearer,  Laura  saw  that  the  long  and  high 
strips  of  land,  barren  as  the  fishermen's  domain,  yet 
picturesque  withal,  were  separated  by  a  rocky  channel, 
adventurous  and  as  dangerous  as  a  pirate's  ambush. 
In  the  center,  a  narrow  rock,  reaching  to  the  height 
of  either  island,  which  divided  the  aperture  into  two 
passages  of  menacing,  rocky  projections.  Both  open- 
ings were  filmed  with  a  fine  hazy  mist,  in  which  there 
flew  and  fluttered  a  swarm  of  guillemots,  the  rare 
birds  whose  hunters  are  become  rarer  with  succeeding 
years. 

In  the  olden  time  this  divide  was  the  scene  of  many 
sea-tragedies.  It  was  the  pirates'  decoy,  where  wreckers 
on  stormy  nights  luring  distressed  ships  with  signals 
of  refuge.  Lighthouses  now  abounded  along  the  shore. 
There  were  two  ports  and  no  forts.  Further  on,  when 
the  coast  of  France  was  reached,  the  forts  became 
many.  To  Laura  they  marred  the  picturesque  coast  of 
Normandy;  they  were  the  surly  guards  of  what  she 
had  conceived  to  be  a  sunny  country.  As  the  steamer 


238  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

moved  further  up  the  watery  valley  known  as  the 
English  Channel,  the  water  turned  greener,  the  waves 
less  forceful  and  the  double  ("ship  to  the  right")  and 
treble  ("ship  to  the  left")  toots  of  the  sailor  perched 
on  the  foremast  became  frequent.  Steamers— light, 
white  and  speedy — crossed  the  bow  and  stern  of  "La 
Provence,"  which  steamed  slower  as  the  ships  became 
more  numerous.  Laura  was  loath  to  leave  the  boat. 
She  had  not  been  ill  a  moment  and  now  the  sun  was 
so  gracious,  the  winds  so  caressing,  the  verdant  Norman 
shore — with  every  foot  of  every  acre  industriously  cul- 
tivated—so restful  to  the  eye.  The  sight  of  land  had 
rectified  the  stomachs  of  the  unseaworthy;  everybody 
was  on  deck,  eager  to  see,  to  feel,  to  comment.  French- 
Americans  who  had  not  seen  their  country  for  years 
were  quite  as  agitated  as  she  who  saw  France  for  the 
first  time. 

There  were  two  simultaneous  cries:  "Havre!" 
"Trouville!" 

Instinctively  Laura  turned  to  the  left ;  an  attractive 
spot,  on  the  slope  of  a  hill;  calm  and  so  placed  as  to 
have  the  sun  from  dawn  to  eventide.  The  houses  of 
restful  architecture,  in  reposeful  array  from  the  hill 
to  the  water's  edge.  The  streets  like  private  driveways. 
On  the  beach  a  few  men  and  women.  The  latter,  when 
not  quite  deferentially  escorted  by  the  former,  were 
attended  by  young  or  elderly  companions  of  their  own 
sex.  The  place  even  from  the  ship's  distance  had  an 
exclusive,  an  aristocratic  air.  The  resort,  fashionable 
under  many  monarchs,  drew  Laura's  gaze  until  the  ship 
was  piloted  in  the  locks.  Havre  stood  sheer  before 
her.  The  docks  swarmed  with  people  and  the  sombre 
swarm  was  relieved  by  the  uniform  of  the  French  sol- 
diery. Though  the  ship's  passengers  were  strangers 
to  those  on  shore,  Laura  was  disappointed  in  not  hear- 
ing a  demonstration  of  welcome;  not  a  cheer  was 
heard,  not  a  handkerchief  waved.  The  crowd  was 
drawn  by  curiosity;  it  was  coldly  curious.  Could  this 
be  Latin  effusiveness— and  then  Laura  remembered 
that  she  was  in  Normandy,  amongst  the  cautious  and 
calculating  Normans.  It  was  a  relieving  transition  to 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  239 

turn  from  the  multitude  to  the  streets.  Some  of  the 
thoroughfares  were  rifts  into  the  mediaeval  period; 
small,  narrow,  devious,  picturesque — thoroughly  of  the 
middle  ages. 

Laura  landed.  She  designedly  chose  a  hotel  in 
vogue  in  the  last  years  of  the  restoration.  The  build- 
ing was  of  old  French,  the  landlady  from  the  south 
of  France'  was  old  French  and  the  service  was  old 
French.  The  welcome  was  effusive  without  a  suspicion 
of  insincerity.  Laura  would  remember  the  gracious 
smile  of  the  daughter  with  the  dark,  ardent  eyes;  the 
eager  bustle  of  the  servants,  the  anticipatory  bustle  of 
the  manager.  The  narrow,  spiral  stairs;  the  winding, 
mazy  hallways;  the  high,  carpetless  room;  the  four- 
teenth century  bed,  the  seventeenth  century  couch, 
and  the  eighteenth  century  chairs;  the  huge  windows 
extending  from  ceiling  to  floor,  in  three  sections  and 
opening  inwardly.  And  these  windows  faced  the 
square  of  Havre,  susceptible  to  the  zephyrs  of  the 
Seine  and  the  breezes  of  the  Channel.  In  the  center 
of  this  sweeping  space  two  statues ;  one  to  the  memory 
of  the  author  of  "Paul  and  Virginia,"  the  other  in 
remembrance  of  the  dramatist  of  "Louis  XI."  Though 
both  were  born  here,  neither  the  novelist  Bernard  de 
St.  Pierre  nor  the  dramatist  Casmir  Delavigne  were 
associated  in  Laura's  mind  with  Havre.  It  was  a  Nor- 
man of  Rouen  who  was  constantly  in  thought  as  she 
wandered  from  the  docks  to  Tortoni's,  from  the  sea 
shore  through  the  mediaeval  passages  called  streets 
across  the  vast  carrefour  and  parks  to  the  residential 
heights.  She  thought  of  "Pierre  et  Jean,"  of  the  many 
little  master-pieces  of  the  same  writer  that  have  Havre 
for  their  locale. 

The  wind  was  forceful  along  the  quay  and  as  its 
sea-laden  breath  permeated  the  wharf,  "L'lvrogne" 
came  to  memory;  a  whistle  by  one  of  the  steamers  in 
port  and  "Pierre  et  Jean"  filled  the  mind.  Every  step 
in  this  city  of  modern  water-front  and  fourteenth  cen- 
tury streets  recalled  that  clear  yet  intense  being  whose 
clearness  was  classic,  whose  realism  was  as  unconscious, 
as  irrevocable  and  as  inevitable  as  nature,  whose  direct- 


240  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

ness  was  epochal,  whose  artistry  remains  inimitable  in 
French  letters  and  whose  inborn  psychology  read  the 
miseries  of  the  lowest  peasant  as  well  as  the  cultured 
subtleties  and  worldly  complexities  of  a  cabinet  min- 
ister—a psychology  that  tempted  him  to  penetrate  into 
the  regions  of  the  Forbidden  Unknown,  where  he  was 
destroyed. 

But  the  emotions  which  the  thoughts  of  that  Nor- 
man stirred  were  deeper,  more  intimate  when,  the  next 
morning,  the  train  entered  the  valley  in  which  Rouen 
lies.  Perhaps  she  thought  that  at  the  view  of  the 
former  home  of  the  Dukes  of  Normandy  she  should 
have  remembered  its  historical  associations,  recalled 
that  the  ancient  city  was  replete  with  stony  reminis- 
cences of  knight-errantry  and  adventures  of  chivalry; 
remembered  that  Robert  the  Devil  had  lived  in  yonder 
house,  that  Jeanne  d'Arc  was  burned  in  the  market 
place,  that  the  heart  of  Richard  the  Lion-hearted  lies 
in  the  dome  of  that  imposing  church;  that  from  this 
soil  sprang  the  hero  of  Hastings,  the  sons  of  Tancred 
and  so  many  more  flowers  of  Norman  knighthood.  But 
Laura  was  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  she  thought 
only  of  the  Norman  author,  until  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful women  with  which  her  eyes  had  ever  been  favored 
appeared  on  the  platform.  A  tall,  curved,  sinuous  fig- 
ure illuminated  by  a  visage  flushed  by  a  delicate  self- 
consciousness  of  complex  characteristics,  potential 
rather  than  pronounced.  The  auburn  hair  was  uncon- 
trollably profuse;  the  mouth  large  and  warm.  The 
eyes  full,  negative  as  to  hue— they  were  not  dark — set 
reposefully;  they  appeared  to  reflect  all  the  other 
colors ;  they  expressed  a  rich  secular  heart  and  an  im- 
mense temperament. 

Her  mien  was  perfect  and  absolutely  self-possessed ; 
her  movement  graceful,  undulating.  In  attire  she  was 
unostentatious.  She  seemed  to  Laura  to  possess  in  per- 
fection what  the  Norman  writer  called  the  mysterious 
attraction  of  sex  which  infallibly  drew  men.  Yet  Laura 
conceived  that  this  beauty  would  impart  no  joy— as  all 
beautiful  things  should— it  was  wholly  disturbing. 

Laura  turned  to  something  equally  beautiful  but  of 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  241 

an  altogether  different  beauty— a  river.  She  knew  it 
was  the  Seine.  It  looked  serene  in  the  Norman  mead- 
ows. The  train  crossed  and  recrossed  it,  sped  beside 
it  for  miles.  Here  the  stream  coursed  through  a  farm 
which  had  devolved  from  peasant  father  to  peasant 
son  for  centuries— every  inch  of  the  soil  carefully  cul- 
tivated—and the  houses  all  encircled  by  a  double  line 
of  high,  serried  trees;  there  it  paralleled  the  white 
highway;  again  it  flowed  between  calcareous  hills. 
Anon  it  was  bordered  by  pretty  landscapes.  Very  nar- 
row and  low  steamers  crowded  with  excursionists  ap- 
peared. Row  boats  passed.  Electric  launches  flitted 
by.  Laura  felt  that  the  fulfillment  of  a  long  and  ardent 
expectation  was  near.  Suddenly  the  river  was  lost. 
Large  white  mansions  (many  wit/h  the  legend  "A 
louer")  posited  in  thickly  wooded  parks  leaped  into 
view. 

Then  all  was  shrouded  in  the  smoke  and  darkness 
of  a  tunnel.  When  light  returned  there  was  a  reful- 
gence of  kaleidoscopic  splendor.  The  sun,  seemingly 
passionate  "with  partiality,  lit  up  a  mighty,  a  majestic, 
a  magnificent  city.  Laura  had  never  seen  but  she 
knew  that  tower,  that  gilded  dome,  that  church  on  the 
heights  and  the  one  below,  between  the  streams;  that 
exotic  edifice  resembling  a  monstrous  bird  about  to 
take  flight;  that  arch  and  those  woods  just  beneath 
her— she  knew  that  it  was  Paris. 

The  depot  was  not  like  other  depots.  The  ap- 
proaches were  not  dark  and  grimy  and  unwholesome; 
the  streets  were  not  defiled ;  the  houses  not  smoked  and 
leprous;  the  air  was  not  vitiated.  The  environments 
were  touched  with  age,  but  they  were  clear  and  clean 
and  wholesome.  The  tenements  were  on  high  embank- 
ments that  flanked  both  sides  of  the  wide  space  strewn 
with  tracks.  Those  old  buildings  were  laved  and  pic- 
turesque; were  of  a  uniform  height  and  made  an 
agreeable  sky  line.  Heads  of  dark  hair  and  eyes  looked 
out  of  the  windows— some  small,  those  of  children; 
others  large,  those  of  mothers.  There  was  activity 
and  animation  everywhere,  but  no  harsh  or  strident 
noises.  Bright  colors  predominated— here  a  red  apron, 


242  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

there  a  high-hued  kerchief  on  a  girl's  head— but  no 
garishness.  In  an  instant  the  absorbing  panorama 
passed  from  Laura 's  intent  gaze  and  they  dashed  under 
a  very  high  and  an  immensely  expansive  roof  of  glass. 

"We  are  in  Paris,  my  dear." 

Laura  heard  but  did  not  heed  Mrs.  Quincy 's  remark, 
for  her  senses  were  enslaved  by  the  absolutely  new  sit- 
uation. Here  was  something  bewilderingly  novel.  There 
was  great  activity  without  noise  or  hurry.  The  clank 
of  wheels,  the  hiss  of  steam,  the  puffs  from  smoke  stacks 
seemed  tempered.  At  the  long  and  high  iron  gate 
which  separated  the  trains  from  the  waiting  rooms  there 
was  a  row  of  sentinels,  one  for  each  platform,  and  at 
one  of  these  exits  the  guard  took  Laura's  tickets. 

"This  way,  my  dear;  the  carriages  are  here." 

Seeing  she  had  not  heard,  Mrs.  Quincy  took  Laura 
by  the  arm  and  half  motherly,  half  joculary :  "My  girl, 
you'll  'have  to  keep  your  head  better  than  this  or  you'll 
be  lost." 

Before  they  could  reach  the  coach  panoply  they 
were  countered  by  something  important — the  customs 
office.  Both'  had  forgotten  it.  Laura  was  reminded  of 
the  function  by  the  word  "Octroi"  over  the  first  door 
they  were  about  to  enter.  They  found  themselves  amid 
a  crowd  four  or  five  deep  awaiting  in  turn  before  a 
long  counter  the  examination  of  their  satchels.  Mrs. 
Quincy  suggested  that  they  go  back  among  the  trucks 
and  trunks  and  secure  all  of  their  baggage  at  once. 

They  were  confronted  by  an  alert  little  fellow,  thor- 
oughly military,  stern  and  martinet-like.  Laura  pointed 
to  her  trunk:  "Voila,  monsieur!"  The  inspector  had 
a  mouthful  of  interrogations,  which  he  emitted  with 
such  velocity  that  Laura  could  not  keep  pace  with  his 
questions.  Her  somewhat  helpless  hesitation  stirred 
his  professional  suspicion.  He  ordered  an  assistant  to 
open  the  trunk.  During  his  brief  inspection  of  her 
effects  Laura  inspected  the  inspector.  Plainly  a  drill 
sergeant;  hair  and  mustache  closely  cropped  and  dead 
white;  the  eyes  metallic  blue,  restive  and  keen.  His 
gestures  quick  and  of  military  precision.  Those  orbs— 
their  hard  vivacity,  their  military  keenness — suggested 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  243 

fife  and  drum  and  somehow  brought  Napoleon  to  mind, 
though  they  were  not  at  all  Napoleonic.  Perhaps  it 
was  that  Laura  thought  the  little  fellow  had  been  proud 
to  serve  under  the  Little  Corporal. 

Finding  everything  satisfactory,  his  manner  loos- 
ened quickly.  He  doffed  his  hat  in  a  way  that  exceeded 
formality— a  requital,  probably,  for  his  severe  suspic- 
ion—and pointed  to  the  counter.  By  this  time  two  of 
the  minor  inspectors  of  portable  baggage  were  unoccu- 
pied. To  Laura's  amazement  they  simply  drew  an 
unintelligible  chalk  line  through  the  center  of  the  two 
stachels,  smiled,  inclined  their  heads  politely  and  indi- 
cated a  conclusion  with  "C'est  tout." 

In  a  moment  they  were  in  the  outer  section  of  the 
great  station ;  it  was  more  like  an  annex  than  an  integral 
part  of  the  building ;  or  yet,  more  precisely,  like  a  porte 
cochere— a  colossal  porte  cochere  vaulted  and  so  long 
that  the  other  end  seemed  the  outlet  from  a  tunnel. 
Again  was  Laura  surprised.  There  was  no  commotion 
in  the  prolonged  line  of  cabmen  on  the  other  side ;  she 
expected  an  importunate  rush  among  the  Jehus;  but 
no;  some  looked  at  her  with  a  disinterested  stare; 
others  were  lazily  indifferent.  Laura  beckoned  timidly 
to  the  nearest.  He  remained  immovable.  Mrs.  Quincy 
did  not  interpose  until  that  moment,  but  now  a  vivid 
red  tinge  had  touched  her  cheek  bones  and  her  eyes 
hardened. 

"What's  the  French  for  cabman?"  she  asked  de- 
cisively. 

"Cocher." 

She  yelled  the  word  at  the  fellow  directly  across 
and  accompanied  it  with  a  threatening  gesture.  The 
man  took  up  his  reins  indolently,  directed  his  horse 
slowly  to  the  waiting  women  and  Laura  named  the 
hotel.  He  contracted  his  nose  in  displeasure— plainly 
the  distance  displeased  him. 

The  vehicle  was  roomy,  open,  comfortable,  and  once 
seated  Laura  forgot  the  annoyance  of  the  moment  be- 
fore. The  momentary  embarrassment  had  given  way 
to  a  sensation  akin  to  that  which  permeated  her  when 
she  was  about  to  take  her  first  lesson  in  French.  A  kind 


244  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

of  trembling  adoration  for  the  thing  she  had  loved  since 
girlhood  as  one  may  love  that  which  is  distant  and 
indistinct.  Everything  French  had  fascinated  her; 
French  history,  French  literature,  French  manners  and 
above  all  French  refinement.  Now  the  feeling  was  in- 
expressibly heightened.  Before,  she  had  entered  her 
France  through  a  book;  now,  she  would  enter  the  real 
France— France  itself.  Her  heart  fluttered.  At  the 
first  turn  of  the  carriage  her  senses  seemed  to  have 
suspended  their  functions;  they  were  overwhelmed  by 
their  environments.  She  barely  apprehended  she  was 
passing  a  building  of  unimagined  magnificence ;  barely 
apprehended  a  sign  "Avenue  de  1'Opera."  She  could 
see  nothing  in  detail ;  she  was  as  if  in  a  dream  of  bril- 
liancy where  everything  dazzled.  Her  mind  was  still 
catching  breath,  she  was  still  panting  mentally  when 
she  was  calmed  by  sight  of  an  edifice  that  she  intui- 
tively knew  was  holy.  The  other  creation  had  evoked 
a  vision  of  sumptuousness,  of  refined  sensuousness ; 
this  one  of  spiritual  awe.  The  horse  was  driven  at  a  high 
pace  and  Laura  had  just  time  to  read  Magdalenae.  Mrs. 
Quincy— a  Catholic— perceiving  the  name,  His  figure 
and  that  of  the  repentant  woman,  crossed  herself. 

And  then  I/aura  was  carried  into  a  scene  of  such 
splendor  that  she  could  not  contain  herself.  She  wept. 
She  breathed  Greek  ether;  she  was  in  the  sweeping 
spaciousness  of  the  Greeks;  she  saw  Greek  purity, 
Greek  grandeur.  In  this  seemingly  infinite  space  was 
an  obelisk,  glistening  in  the  golden  sunlight.  On  either 
side  of  it  were  stately  fountains,  whose  emissions — 
thrown  from  the  mouth  of  fish,  dolphins  and  other 
oceanic  emblems— ended  in  lacy,  graceful  sprays; 
they  were  undulous  and  suggestive  of  the  sea  with  their 
Nereids  wreathed  in  scallops,  corals  and  seaweed. 
Around  the  obelisk  and  fountain  a  roadway  broad 
enough  for  a  score  of  chariots  abreast.  Flanking  these 
a  gorgeous  pavement,  white,  a  square  wide,  and  at  the 
extremity  a  series  of  seated  figures.  Surrounding  all, 
gardens,  through  whose  trees  penetrated  edifices  of 
marvelous  beauty, — palaces,  churches,  legislative  halls. 

The  coachman,  observing  the  impression  this  archi- 


THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY.  245 

tectural  magnificence  had  made  upon  his  fare,  remarked 
relentingly :  "La  place  est  belle,  n'est-pas?"  Laura 
heard  but  could  not  answer.  Later,  three  weeks  later, 
when  she  had  partly  found  herself,  she  tried  to  tell 
Rebecca  Rosenau  in  a  letter  what  she  felt.  "If  I 
were  endowed  with  a  sixth  faculty,  nobly  trained 
and  exercised  to  convey  the  thoughts,  feelings,  and 
sensations  of  our  deep  and  unknown  selves,  I  might 
give  you  a  conception  of  what  I  felt  and  thought, 
of  what  I  was  sensible  wihen  I  saw  the  Place.  To  use 
the  common  phrase  of  being  in  another  world  is  a  plat- 
itude which  expresses  nothing  -at  all;  but  taken  in  a 
most  literal  sense  the  "words  mean  something.  If  I 
had  been  suddenly  lifted  to  another  planet,  a  planet 
dazzlingly  beautiful,  of  a  beauty  unimaginable,  un- 
dreamable,  I  had  not  been  more  lost  than  I  was  when 
I  entered  the  Place.1' 

Another  turn  and  they  were  in  a  road  of  sur- 
passing splendor,  formed,  it  had  seemed,  in  a  park  of 
regal  conception.  Laura  read  the  legend  on  one  of  the 
high,  artistically  designed  electric  pillars:  Avenue  de 
Champs  Elysee.  Ah,  they  were  appropriately  named, 
these  elysran  fields;  for  fields  of  delight  to  senses  and 
soul  they  were,  and  between  these  series  of  luxuriant 
gardens  lay  the  grandiose  boulevard  terminating  in 
an  arch  which  was  bathed  in  the  purple  rays  of  a 
setting  sun.  This  powder  from  the  yellow  planet  also 
was  poured  upon  the  majestic  thoroughfare  which  was 
charged  with  two  streams  of  flashing  vehicles  going  in 
opposite  directions. 

The  vehicle  stopped  before  a  vision  in  white  marble ; 
solid,  yet  graceful,  bold  in  outline  yet  delicate  in  exe- 
cution. 

"Ici,  Mesdames!" 

The  coachman  had  hardly  uttered  the  word  when 
two  liveried  attendants  were  at  the  carriage  door. 
They  were  all  that  reminded  Laura  of  an  hotel;  other- 
wise it  was  as  if  she  were  entering  a  palace  prepared 
for  her  reception.  There  were  no  gaping  or  inquisitive 
guests  inside  or  out.  Save  for  the  gentle  splash  of  the 
fountain  in  the  rotunda,  perfect  quiet.  The  chief  clerk 


246  THE  SEA'S  MAGIC  MONOTONY. 

bowed  in  a  discreet  crescent,  but  said  nothing  until 
Laura  and  Mrs.  Quincy  had  registered.  Then  he  spoke 
the  English  of  an  Englishman.  They  were  conducted 
to  three  rooms  facing  the  boulevard. 

Laura  began  feverishly  to  disrobe.  Mrs.  Quincy 
looked  at  her  inquiringly:  "What  are  you  doing? 
What  is  the  matter?" 

"I  want  to  change  my  dress  and  go  out— I  want  to 
see  Paris." 

"No,  you  must  not  do  that.  You  must  rest.  Don't 
be  in  a  hurry.  Don't  try  to  see  too  much  in  a  short 
time.  If  you  do  you'll  become  exhausted  and  in  the 
end  disgusted.  Make  yourself  comfortable.  Order 
your  dinner  brought  to  the  room  for  this  time.  Read 
a  little  while  and  retire  early.  See  your  modists  in  the 
morning.  Drive  around  an  hour  or  so  in  the  afternoon 
and  if  you  are  not  too  tired  go  to  the  theatre  in  the 
evening.  But  don't  try  to  see  too  much  in  one  day." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

Laura  dreamed  that  night  not  of  Paris,  of  Havre, 
of  Rouen,  or  of  the  sea,  but  of  Paul  Bourgeon.  Why 
that  French  author  should  have  troubled  her  sleep 
passed  her  comprehension.  To  dream  of  Beaupassant, 
of  Azola,  of  Bidet  or  even  of  Sartat  had  been  compre- 
hensible, for  she  had  read  these  writers  quite  com- 
pletely, especially  Beaupassant,  and  had  a  wish  of 
meeting  one  of  them,  but  of  Bourgeon  she  had  not 
thought.  She  was  not  familiar  with  his  works;  had 
read,  indeed,  only  one  of  them.  Why  then  should  she 
—ah,  yes!  she  had  once  read  a  fragment  of  science 
which  had  strayed  into  a  newspaper  column  to  the 
effect  that  the  last  thing  touching  thought  just  before 
the  mind  loses  itself  in  sleep  will  invariably  be  the 
subject  of  a  dream.  She  must  therefore  have  seen 
something  or  somebody  that  reminded  her  of  Bourgeon 
as  slumber  softly  rendered  her  unconscious.  Her 
psychological  curiosity  satisfied,  the  wish  to  meet  with 
the  famous  Parisian  recurred  vaguely.  But  how?  Who 
could  introduce  her?  Her  letters  of  introduction  to 
correspondents  of  American  journals?  Perhaps — 

"Laura,  I'm  ready,  are  you?" 

Mrs.  Quincy's  question  was  a  reminder  of  her  prime 
motive  in  coming  to  Paris— her  gowns.  A  sign  from 
the  porter  and  there  was  one  cab  less  in  the  long  line 
filed  at  a  respectful  distance  from  the  hotel.  It  was 
a  low,  roomy  vehicle,  and  as  the  day  was  young  the 
cabman  took  it  for  granted  that  his  fares  were  in  no 
hurry.  He  drove  gently  down  the  wonderfully  beautiful 
avenue  across  the  still  and  more  beautiful  Place,  and 
into  a  bustling,  dashing  street  which  Laura  noticed 
bore  the  euphonious  name,  Rue  de  Rivoli.  He  soon 

(«47) 


248  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

turned  and  in  a  few  paces  was  in  a  broad  circle  that 
contained,  exactly  in  the  center,  a  dark,  round  monu- 
ment that  lifted  in  the  air,  away  above  the  harmonious 
sky  line  made  by  the  series  of  hotels  within  the  circular 
space.  There  were  soldiers  and  cannon,  guns  and 
swords,  drums  and  fifes,  and  battle  scenes  chiseled 
upon  that  towering  memorial  which  was  crowned  by 
a  figure  in  Roman  costume. 

Cocher,  qu'est-ce  que  c'est  la?" 

"Mais,  c'est  Lui!"  There  was  unfeigned  amaze- 
ment in  his  answer. 

"Lui?   Qu'est-ce  que  Lui?"    she  persisted  bravely. 

"Mais— mais  Napoleon!  C'est  la  colonne  Ven- 
dome. ' ' 

Now  she  knew,  and  she  was  rather  discomforted 
not  to  have  recognized  the  original  of  the  many  prints 
she  had  seen  of  that  shaft  which  was  made  up  of  cannon 
captured  by  that  marvelous  warrior. 

Again  a  quick  turn  and  almost  directly  another.  It 
was  a  short  street,  but  brilliant  with  fine  shops.  At 
a  corner  the  horse  was  reined.  Laura  looked  up  saw 
the  name  Chevet.  A  simple,  modest  store,  two  wooden 
models  perfectly  gowned  in  an  unpretentious  window, 
nothing  more.  Inside  a  handsome  boy  in  uniform — at 
the  door;  a  woman  on  a  stool  within  a  wire  enclosure 
opening  and  filing  letters ;  two  men  clerks,  one  of  whom 
advanced  politely. 

Mons.  Chevet?  (The  interrogation  had  a  note  of 
polite  surprise.)  But  mons.  Chevet  never  came  down 
from  St.  Cloud  before  eleven  o'clock.  And  mademoi- 
selle had  made  no  engagement  with  him?  How  unfor- 
tunate. It  is  absolutely  necessary  for  Mons.  Chevet 's 
clients  to  make  appointments.  Mons.  Chevet 's  clients 
are  many.  A  letter  of  introduction  from  Mons.  Gars? 
Oh,  very  good,  very  good  indeed.  If  mademoiselle 
will  permit  an  hour  will  now  be  fixed.  Say  at  11 :30  to- 
morrow morning.  Ordinarily  he  would  not  dare  to 
take  it  upon  himself  to  make  the  appointment,  but 
coming  from  Mons.  Gars— most  valued  and  esteemed 
client— mademoiselle  may  be  sure  to  make  her  ar- 
rangements to-morrow. 


IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL.  249 

To-morrow  then.  In  the  meanwhile  why  noi  present 
other  letters— to  the  American  correspondents  of  the 
Dial  or  the  Courrier?  The  idea  was  acted  upon  the 
more  readily  that  the  Courrier  office  was— the  cabman 
said— only  two  blocks  away.  They  were  hardly  in  the 
cab  than  they  stood  before  a  building  in  a  spirited 
street  named  Boulevard  de  Capucin— Laura  had 
quickly  formed  the  habit  of  looking  at  the  blue  legend 
at  the  corner  giving  the  names  of  thoroughfares— a 
building  made  conspicuous  by  a  large  and  glaringly 
white  sign  announcing  the  office  of  the  American  news- 
paper. The  interior  was  altogether  modest  and  it  was 
seen  that  the  two  small  rooms  in  the  entresol  were  the 
offices  of  not  only  the  Courrier  but  a  dozen  other  Ameri- 
can journals  and  periodicals  as  well.  A  tall,  slender, 
gray-haired  and  youthful  looking  individual  re- 
sponded to  the  inquiry:  Theodore  Stanley.  In  thor- 
oughly Yankee  inflections  he  was  glad  to  meet  his 
countrywomen.  With  the  directness  characteristic 
of  his  race  he  promised  at  once  to  introduce  Laura 
to  any  of  the  famous  people  she  should  elect;  or, 
rather,  Mr.  Woodlock  would  perform  the  function  of 
introductions.  Mr.  Woodlock  was  presented.  An 
entirely  boyish  young  man.  Though  of  a  self-effac- 
ing nature  his  high  English  breeding  was  perceptible 
in  a  glance  and  his  English  was  as  restful  to  the  ear 
as  his  official  superior's  tones  was  grating.  He  sug- 
gested that  they  go  to  Le  Barbier;  it  was  an  oppor- 
tune time— before  noon— for  the  visit,  unless  the  ladies 
wished  to  spend  half  an  hour  in  looking  over  the 
American  newspapers.  No,  Laura  would  defer  that 
pleasure— she  almost  said  duty— for  a  few  days.  Any- 
how, she  read  French  readily,  so  would  read  the  Paris 
dailies  and  thus  keep  herself  informed.  A  suspicion 
of  a  smile  flitted  over  the  young  Englishman;  he  was 
afraid  Miss  Darnby  would  find  very  little  news  of 
her  country  in  the  French  papers.  A  line  or  two  of 
political  information  appeared  once  or  twice  a  week  but 
seldom  more  or  oftener.  Even  the  doings  of  the  coun- 
tries immediately  beyond  the  borders  were  treated 
meagerly.  Paris  was  for  Paris  quite  completely— the 


250  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

residum  was  for  the  provinces.  Had  Miss  Darnby 
observed  that  they  were  walking?  Then  perhaps  she 
preferred  to  walk.  It  was  not  far  anyway.  Laura  had 
observed  so  well  that  she  scarcely  heard  his  remarks 
about  the  Paris  press.  The  leafy  boulevard  itself 
did  not  draw  her  observation  so  much  as  the  people 
in  it.  For  the  first  time  she  saw  with  clear  recog- 
nition and  in  detail.  The  men  belied  the  foreign  fal- 
lacy of  being  small  of  stature,  of  being  nervous,  mer- 
curial and  generally  irresponsible  in  movement.  Three 
of  five  of  the  men  wiho  passed  her  were  above  the  aver- 
age height  and  they  were  handsome.  Nearly  all  of  the 
young  men  were  bearded  in  the  Henry  IVth  style. 
Those  who  had  crossed  the  middle-age  line  wore  mus- 
taches or  were  smooth  shaven.  They  moved  leisurely, 
always  observantly.  Many  were  dignified,  many  dis- 
tingue; a  few  were  heavy  of  face  and  body  and  of 
movement.  Remembering  Havre,  the  contrast  in 
complexion  was  striking.  Here  and  there  a  light  brown 
head  with  metal  blue  eyes  was  met.  Interspersed 
again  were  'heads  and  physiques  familiar  to  Laura  in 
her  own  country.  Of  these,  the  young  men  were  alert 
in  manner;  alert  blue  eyes,  alert  faces  of  high  healthy 
color;  tall,  slight  and  the  glance  a  spirited  fusion 
of  the  mischievous  and  daring.  The  older  men  were 
somewhat  bulky  of  figure;  their  countenances  smooth, 
massive  and  deeply  character-lined;  the  eyes  were  the 
eyes  of  the  young  men,  a  glittering  and  interchange- 
able blue  gray.  The  heads  were  also  massive  and  when 
not  whitened  were  from  blue-black  to  brown.  When 
Laura  heard  one  of  them  speak  she  was  surprised  not 
to  hear  a  brogue.  "Why  some  of  these  men  look  so 
Irish,"  she  remarked.  "I  could  have  sworn  they  were 
Irish  priests  or  politicians." 

"Quite  natural.  What  you  see  is  a  racial  affinity. 
They  or  their  ancestors  came  from  the  Celtic  provinces. 
Paulus  of  the  Amibassadeurs  is  a  thorough  Celt.  To 
you  he  will  seem  an  Irish  comedian. ' ' 

But  the  more  part  of  the  men  'were  swarthy,  the 
pronounced  black  hair  and  eyes  of  the  extreme  south 


IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL.  251 

or  the  modified  swarthiness  of  the  country  not  go  far 
south.  Their  aspect  was  Roman. 

The  predominant  hue  among  the  women  likewise 
was  Roman.  Laura  was  struck  with  the  similarity 
of  carriage.  From  the  shop  girl  to  the  woman  shopping 
the  walk  was  remarkably  similar;  light,  easy,  grace- 
ful; the  lightness,  ease  and  grace  of  cheerful  insouci- 
ance. At  one  place  an  accident  had  befallen  the  street 
sprinkler.  The  water  had  gushed  upon  the  curb  and 
made  a  little  pool.  The  way  the  women  managed  it 
was  a  wonder  even  to  Laura,  who  had  studied  such 
niceties.  They  would  stop  for  half  a  minute  beneath 
a  door  way  on  either  side  of  the  wet  spot  while  they 
picked  up  their  skirts  in  little  gathers  in  the  left  hand, 
draw  the  bottom  tight  against  the  right  ankle  and 
start  off,  lifting  the  pleats  airily  before  them.  Both 
the  dexterity  of  the  folding  and  the  lightness  of  the 
holding  were  touches  of  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art. 

Up  the  resplendent  boulevard  they  continued, 
Laura  finding  every  step  of  the  way  crowded  with 
interest. 

"You  of  the  theatre  will  be  interested  to  know  that 
across  the  way  is  the  Varieties,  where  many  of  Offen- 
bach's opera  bouffes  were  produced." 

A  narrow  front  of  Greek  architecture,  wedged  in 
among  a  series  of  shops  and  cafes;  very  conspicuous 
amidst  the  buildings  of  uniform  style.  Placards  placed 
at  either  side  of  the  entrance  to  the  lobby  announced 
a  revival  of  "Les  Brigands." 

They  turned  on  a  street  to  the  left;  not  many  steps 
and  they  stood  before  a  crescent  sign,  "Le  Barbier,"  the 
famous  French  journal.  Unpretentious  in  dimensions 
but  highly  ornamental  in  design,  the  newspaper  build- 
ing had  an  entrance  like  that  of  a  theatre.  A  stiff 
and  high  porter  in  a  gorgeous  uniform  saluted  as  they 
passed.  Further  down  the  lobby  another  uniform  of 
equal  height  and  rigidity  saluted.  A  short  turn  and 
they  were  in  a  narrow  corridor  lined  with  doors.  An 
elderly  gentleman  in  black,  supporting,  apparently, 
with  difficulty  a  dome-like  head,  bowed  low,  and  an- 
ticipated Woodlock  with  "Monsieur  Pelletier?" 


252  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

Precisely. 

Would  they  take  the  pains  to  be  seated  while  he 
announced  them? 

In  the  few  minutes  they  waited  there  was  a  con- 
tinuous in  and  out  movement  of  the  many  doors. 
Young  men  with  a  busy  air  hurried  to  and  fro  carry- 
ing fluttering  proof  sheets;  older  men,  compositors 
in  blouses  spotted  with  ink,  dodged  past  them.  A  nerv- 
ous little  man  appeared  elegantly  attired — the  ele- 
gance was  somewhat  too  striking,  the  Prince  Albert 
molded  too  tightly  at  the  waist,  the  spats  too  broad, 
the  shoes  too  pointed.  "The  society  reporter,"  Wood- 
lock  explained. 

Other  journalists  followed;  but  they  were  seem- 
ingly of  more  importance ;  they  were  in  no  hurry ;  their 
step  was  more  deliberate,  their  manner  more  grave 
and  all  wore  black  slouched  hats,  as  though  this  form 
of  head  covering  would  distinguish  them  from  aver- 
age mortals.  Among  them  Woodlock  saluted  a  high 
imposing  individual  in  black  frock  and  white  cravat; 
straight  as  a  drill  sergeant;  head  somewhat  whitened 
— very  erect;  the  mustache  thick  and  horizontal  and 
insolently  pointed.  "Scholl  the  famous  chroniqueur, 
and  the  last  of  the  Boulevardiers  of  the  old  school; 
Henri  Murger's  friend  and  the  friend  or  foe  of  every 
celebrity  since  the  old  Latin  Quarter  day.  He  is  paid 
$10,000  a  year  for  a  couple  of  articles  a  week.  Oh, 
here's  Pelletier." 

The  man  who  said  in  a  caressing  voice  that  he 
was  altogether  enchanted  to  make  the  ladies'  acquaint- 
ance seemed  soft  and  smooth  in  every  particular.  Of 
feminine  height  and  delicacy;  the  large  brown  and 
gentle  eyes  of  a  woman;  although  bearded— black 
silken  hairs — the  beard  did  not  conceal  a  small,  ex- 
pressive mouth.  The  white  hand  which  he  extended 
to  Woodlock  was  delicate.  His  bow,  his  every  move- 
ment signified  grace.  First  he  would  beg  his  visitors 
to  come  to  his  office.  On  the  way  up  the  stairs  he 
assured  Laura— in  unctuous  accents— that  it  was  an 
unusual  pleasure  for  him  to  meet  Americans.  The 
American  ladies  were  not  only  more  beautiful  than 


IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL.  253 

the  French  but  they  had  the  Parisienne's  esprit;  and 
then  they  understood  everything  so  quickly.  As  for 
the  men,  they  were  phenomenal,  nothing  less  than  phe- 
nomenal. What  force!  What  energy!  Nothing  was 
impossible  for  an  American.  They  performed  the 
wonders  of  the  world.  Lowering  his  voice  in  sudden 
transition  he  admitted  that  Le  Barbier  was  partial  to 
Americans,  for  the  paper  had  many  subscribers  over 
there.  The  door  opened  and  Laura  stepped  into  what 
appeared  to  be  a  luxurious  library;  richly  carpeted, 
elegantly  tapestried.  In  the  center,  a  large  heavy 
sumptuous  table,  the  black  hue  relieved  by  a  white  urn 
filled  with  roses.  Chairs  of  every  size  and  descrip- 
tion. The  room  contained  a  semi-circular  bookcase. 
Laura  had  been  in  the  editorial  department  only  an 
instant  when  her  attention  was  drawn  to  the  portraits 
on  the  wall.  Many  of  them  she  recognized.  It  was 
a  gallery  of  famous  faces  from  Balzac  down  to  Paul 
Bourget,  and  Pelletier  in  accents  of  pride  said  that 
they  had  all  been  contributors  to  Le  Barbier.  He  was 
showing  the  manuscripts  of  some  of  these  celebrated 
authors  when  a  liveried  porter  opened  the  door  and 
in  hurried  but  deferential  tone  whispered  something. 
As  he  caught  the  name  the  editor's  air  of  easy  courtesy 
took  on  a  shade  of  deference:  "Ask  him  to  step  in." 
The  portrait  that  Laura  had  just  been  studying 
was  ushered  into  the  room.  The  editor  turned  to 
the  newcomer  effusively  and  shook  hands  eagerly. 
Laura  recognized  the  identity  between  the  picture  and 
the  man,  though  it  was  a  telling  instance  of  how  far 
the  cry  between  the  canvas  and  the  living  being.  A 
strong  head  set  firmly  and  calmly  upon  large,  mus- 
cular shoulders.  The  face  a  strange  blending  of  con- 
tradictory elements ;  it  was  martial  and  dreamy,  sensu- 
ous and  bourgeois.  The  hair  coarse  but  wavy,  short 
but  thrown  back,  in  the  fashion  of  a  musician;  the 
forehead  broad  but  low;  the  eyes  large  and  brown, 
by  turns  alert  and  dreamful ;  the  nose  heavy  but  strong. 
The  carelessly  brushed  brown  mustache,  and  the  nar- 
row stubble  beneath  the  lower  lip  did  not  conceal  a 
large,  somewhat  loose  but  vigorous  mouth.  In  the 


254  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

same  glance  he  gave  the  idea  of  strength  and  indif- 
ference, of  a  dreamer  and  a  materialist;  of  frank- 
ness and  reticence;  of  a  poet  and  a  man  of  the  world. 
But  through  the  conflicting  impressions  Laura  felt 
in  an  overwhelming  way  that  she  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  man  rather  than  a  writer.  The  picture  had 
told  her  nothing,  but  before  the  editor  pronounced 
' '  Monsieur  Beaupassant ' '  she  knew  instinctively  it  was 
he— to  those  who  had  read  him  his  strangely  impress- 
ive presence  revealed  it.  His  voice  harmonized  with 
his  personality— i/t  was  what  she  had  expected — a  deep, 
round,  vibrant  baritone  with  a  low  nervous  note  that 
drew  her  clandestinely.  When  she  said  in  an  awed, 
nervous  manner  that  she  was  very  pleased  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  he  answered  in  English,  correctly 
but  with  a  definite  accent:  "Ah,  the  pleasure  is  mine; 
it  is  always  a  pleasure  for  me  to  meet  Americans. ' ' 

He  shook  hands  with  Woodlock,  bowed  genially 
to  Mrs.  Quincy,  who,  though  she  knew  nothing  of  him, 
frankly  looked  her  admiration  of  his  manly  appear- 
ance. It  was  when  he  turned  for  a  moment  to  Mrs. 
Quincy  that  Laura  noticed  that  he  was  not  tall;  the 
illusion,  at  first,  of  his  height  was  made  by  his  mus- 
cularity, his  athletic  strength ;  a  gladiator  whom  nature 
had  forgotten  to  endow  with  the  final  perfection, 
stature. 

"You  are  an  author  I  have  always  wished  to  meet. 
I  had  read  only  one  of  your  books  when  I  wished 
to  know  all  about  you." 

She  was  more  amazed  at  her  bold  and  direct  com- 
plimment  than  he,  who  allowed  an  outline  of  a  smile 
to  flit  over  his  countenance.  He  said  nothing  in  reply 
but  asked  with  a  suspicion  of  banter  in  the  tone: 
"And  now  that  you  have  met  me?" 

"I  am  more  than  gratified.  I  expected  to  meet  an 
author,  but  I  have  also  met  a  man." 

His  personality  had  inspired  Laura  to  a  compli- 
ment to  which  he  ,was  palpably  susceptible.  He  gave 
her  a  deep,  a  profoundly  interested  look. 

"You  are,  I  believe,  visiting  this  office.  May  I  be 
permitted  to  accompany  you?" 


IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL.  255 

This  was  his  answer  to  her  uncontrollably  sincere 
compliment— a  refined,  a  delicate,  an  incisively  ap- 
preciative reciprocity. 

"But  you  wish  to  confer  with  Mons.  Pelletier." 

"That  can  wait.  Monsieur  Pelletier,  I  have  Miss 
Darnby's  permission  to  see  the  office  with  you." 

Going  up  the  stair,  behind  the  others,  Laura  re- 
marked: "Mons.  Pelletier  is— is— "  She  hesitated, 
she  could  not  find  the  word. 

"Feminine  you  wish  to  say,  I  suppose,"  he  inter- 
posed. "Yet  he  is  not.  In  manner  he  is  feline.  That 
softness,  that  delicacy  is  merely  the  velvet  glove  that 
covers  a  hand  of  iron.  He  is  a  fighter.  He  fears 
nothing  on  earth.  And  he  conducts  his  staif  by  the 
rule  of  absolutism  Could  you  guess  what  I  came 
for  to-day  ?  It  is  to  tell  him  that  I  shall  sue  his  paper 
for  libel.  And  he  knows  it." 

There  was  something  in  his  element  and  something 
in  hers  that  made  mutual  confidences  irresistible. 

Laura  now  asked  why  with  a  directness  and  a  tone 
which  were  almost  familiar.  Le  Barbier,  he  answered, 
had  imputed  to  him  an  intrigue  of  a  peculiarly  dis- 
creditable nature.  It  was  invented  out  of  hand,  simply 
because  he  recently  had  contributed  several  articles 
to  a  rival  journal.  Now  Laura  noticed  they  were  in 
a  theatre.  The  stage  a  little  gem;  the  diminutive 
auditorium— a  pit  and  balcony — a  dream  in  white  and 
gold.  "Pretty,  isn't  it?"  But  Beaupassant  continued 
—an  advertisement  paid  by  people  of  the  theatre. 
Every  European  player  or  cantatrice  who  comes  to  Paris 
is  invited  to  display  her  talents  here.  The  invitation  is 
a  courteous  synoym  for  a  command.  They  who  ignore 
these  requests  are  made  to  regret  it.  An  advertise- 
ment for  the  paper,  nothing  more.  This  was  all  that 
could  be  of  interest  to  her.  The  rest  was  machinery. 
There  was  nothing  so  repugnant  to  the  artistic  tem- 
perament as  machinery— it  was  Beaupassant  speaking. 
Art  and  mechanism  were  irreconcilable.  He  addressed 
Pelletier:  "You  will  please  cease  your  aspersions; 
otherwise  we  shall  be  embroiled  in  disagreeable  litiga- 
tion." 


256  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

Turning  again  to  Laura  he  asked  her  hotel;  and 
would  she  give  'him  permission  to  call?  Laura  gave 
a  confused  yes;  a  confusion  in  which  sentiments  of 
an  overwhelming  compliment,  of  an  embarassment  of 
propriety,  of  a  dread  of  fascination  were  mingled.  He 
muttered  au  revoir  and  walked  away  abruptly. 

The  editor  showed  them  the  manuscripts  of  famous 
writers,  but  Laura  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing.  The 
man  in  whose  presence  she  had  been  only  a  few  min- 
utes occupied  her  intimately  and  she  did  not  come  to 
complete  social  consciousness  until  Woodlock  spoke  of 
him,  immediately  Le  Barbier's  ornate  facade  was  out 
of  view. 

"Are  you  aware  that  you  have  performed  almost  a 
miracle?  You  have,  I  assure  you.  You  have  made 
Beaupassant  talk;  more  marvelous  still,  he  has  men- 
tioned something  about  his  preferences  and  his  antipa- 
thies. It  is  a  precedent  in  his  reputation  for  reticence. 
He  is  a  silent  and  inscrutable  fellow.  Nobody  knows 
him.  I  have  heard  that  Aloza,  Bourgeon,  Bidet  and 
others  who  are  supposed  to  know  him  as  nearly  as 
it  is  possible  to  know  the  man  do  not  understand 
your  favorite  novelist.  He's  as  taciturn  as  a  Bedouin 
about  himself,  and  his  own  affairs.  Nobody  knows 
what  he  is  doing.  His  nearest  friends  are  not  aware 
that  he  has  written  anything  until  the  story  or  novel 
is  in  print.  Occasionally  he  will  discuss  a  subject 
of  art,  but  it  is  always  with  clarity  and  precision; 
he  will  tolerate  nothing  that  is  nebulous  or  abstruse 
or  indefinite  or  undefined.  You  must  say  what  you 
mean  in  clear,  plain  terms.  And  with  all  that  his  per- 
sonality is  mysterious ;  there  is  even  something  question- 
able about  his  birth.  His  mother  is  gifted  mentally. 
She  is  the  highest  type  of  the  brilliant  Frenchwoman. 
Her  husband  is  connected  with  the  Bourse,  but  they 
separated  years  ago.  Meanwhile  Flaubert  took  an 
extraordinary  interest  in  Beaupassant.  He  educated 
him.  For  years  he  was  his  literary  instructor.  Flau- 
bert and  Madame  Beaupassant  were  friends  from  child- 
hood and  there  are  whispers  that  the  separation  of 
the  Beaupassants  was  caused  by  the  husband's  jealousy 


IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL.  257 

of  Flaubert.  There  are  inuendoes  that  Flaubert's 
paternal  interest  in  the  boy  was  prompted  by  some- 
thing more  vital  than  the  mere  wish  to  develop  the 
youth's  literary  talents.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that 
a  suspicion  of  his  illegitimacy  has  created  the  secret- 
ive strain  in  Beaupassant;  the  same  kind  of  morbid 
trait  with  which  the  younger  Dumas  is  affected;  but 
in  Dumas  the  morbidity  vents  itself  in  an  increasing 
denunciation  of  society.  Beaupassant  never  speaks 
of  his  mother.  He  is  a  profound  favorite  with  Dumas. 
Dumas  is  his  second  godfather  as  Flaubert  was  his 
first.  Dumas  wanted  him  to  marry,  to  propose  himself 
for  the  Academy,  but  he  would  do  neither.  He  has 
sworn  there  are  two  things  he  will  never  be,  a  member 
of  the  Academy  and  a  Benedict.  He  is  a  great  favor- 
ite with  the  women  of  Paris,  but  he  will  never  allow 
himself  to  be  drawn  too  affectionately  to  any  one  of 
them.  He  wants  to  be  complete  master  of  his  thoughts 
and  feelings,  he  says.  He  has  intermittent  trouble 
with  his  eyes,  so  he  engaged  an  amenuensis,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  a  highly  cultured  and  beautiful  woman. 
Finding  himself  attracted  toward  her,  he  jumped  into 
a  yacht  and  roamed  the  ocean  until  he  forgot  her." 

"Has  he  no  companion  whatever?" 

"Not  in  an  intimate  sense,  no.  Bourgeon  and  a 
newspaper  man,  La  Pierre,  are  perhaps  nearer  to  him 
than  anybody,  but  they  know  only  the  outer  man.  I 
know  all  this  merely  from  hearsay.  I  am  giving  you 
nothing  more  authentic  than  the  gossip  that  circu- 
lates in  journalistic  circles.  It  may  all  be  true,  it 
may  all  be  untrue.  I  have  retailed  the  small  talk  of 
newspaperdom  because  I  see  you  admire  the  man's 
work— and  so  do  I.  I  think  he  is  the  most  perfect, 
the  most  finished  of  French  novelists.  I  would  I 
knew  more  of  him,  but  I  meet  him  casually  only,  just 
as  I  met  him  to-day.  When  we  meet  alone  he  asks 
me  about  America  and  his  questions  are  always 
intelligent;  unlike  most  Frenchmen,  however,  edu- 
cated, he  has  a  correct  understanding  of  American 
affairs  in  general.  Though  nobody  knows,  everybody 
is  acquainted  with  Beaupassant.  When  he  chooses  he 


258  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

goes  in  all  circles;  aristocratic,  bourgeois,  plebian, 
monarchistic,  Republican,  socialist,  all  are  happy  to 
entertain  him.  He  is  one  of  the  few  men  in  the  lit- 
erary world  who  has  no  enemies  among  men  of  let- 
ters. He  is  liked  by  all  and  he  reciprocates  by  dis- 
liking nobody.  While  he  is  a  mystery  to  all,  he  under- 
stands everybody.  His  understanding  of  character, 
especially  of  women,  is  marvelous;  but  again  I  speak 
at  second  hand,  or  at  best  from  his  books.  They  are 
playing  his  drama,  "Musotte,"  at  the  Gymnase.  Per- 
haps you  would  like  to  see  it.  I  should  be  pleased 
to  secure  seats  for  you. ' ' 

Yes,  but  not  that  night,  later.  First  she  must  see 
the  Comedie  Frangaise,  must  attend  the  Opera,  the 
Grand  and  the  Comique ;  after  these  the  others. 

Woodlock  advised  her -to  go  to  the  Frangaise  that 
evening.  Pailleron's  "Le  monde  ou  Ton  s 'ennui"  was 
the  comedy.  The  refinement  of  the  company  was  well 
exampled  in  this  piece.  They  came  to  a  square,  busy 
but  unhurried;  metropolitan,  still  town-like;  the  trees 
lent  a  rural  air;  an  exclusive  yet  an  inviting  atmos- 
phere; modern  yet  historical;  Laura  felt  that  she  was 
in  the  presence  of  an  illustrious  tradition,  of  an  art 
under  the  aegis  of  an  artistic  people.  Facing  her  an 
oblong  building  with  an  arched  roof.  Unpretentious 
yet  imposing;  inornate  yet  harmonious.  Under  the 
portico  a  small  poster  headed  "Comedie  Frangaise" 
announcing  the  play  for  a  week.  There  were  two  box 
offices,  a  woman  in  each.  At  the  windows  a  soldier 
who  took  Woodlock 's  order  for  seats  repeated  the 
order  to  the  women  and  handed  the  tickets  and  change 
to  the  Englishman  with  a  military  salute. 

In  the  evening  their  vehicle  was  the  eleventh  in 
the  row;  but  so  rapidly  and  withal  so  quietly  were 
these  carriages  dismissed  that  in  a  few  minutes  Laura 
and  Mrs.  Quincy  were  passing  the  superb  soldiers 
standing  near  the  pillars  which,  in  rigidity,  they  re- 
sembled. Directly  they  were  in  a  wide  semi-circular 
vestibule,  where  they  followed  the  many  women  who 
preceded  them  from  the  carriages.  They  entered  a 
large,  lateral  apartment.  Middle-aged  and  old  women, 


IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL.  259 

all  fat,  were  exchanging  metal  checks  for  apparel. 
Emerging  from  the  wardrobe  one  of  these  looked  at 
their  seat  number  and  conducted  them  to  their  aisle. 

"Why,  are  all  the  ushers  of  Paris  women?" 

"Yes,  that  much  I  remember  of  Paris.  And  I 
remember  that  somebody  told  me  they  were  made  up 
of  women  who  had  failed  as  actresses  and  of  former 
mistresses  of  government  officials." 

Laura  lost  Mrs.  Quincy's  reply  in  viewing  the  in- 
terior. There  were  many  galleries,  but  they  were  nar- 
row. They  hugged  the  walls  and  left  the  auditorium 
free  and  spacious.  The  boxes,  though  numerous,  were 
not  huddled  in  family  or  familiar  proximity;  they 
were  politely  segregated  and  some  of  them  extended 
from  the  galleries. 

But  details  and  audience  quickly  vanished  from 
Laura  in  the  consciousness  of  the  traditions  of  the 
house.  A  feeling  almost  sacred,  almost  hollowed,  im- 
pregnated her  as  she  thought  of  the  theatre's  past. 
It  was  this  organization  that  had  been  led  by  Moliere, 
that  produced  his  ever-living  comedies;  this  that  in- 
spired Racine  and  Corneille.  This  the  company  with 
which  Adrienne  Lecouvieur  and  Talma  and  Mars  and 
Rachel  had  been  associated.  The  date  on  the  curtain 
took  her  back  more  than  two  centuries.  She  was  about 
to  witness  the  art  of  players  whose  ancestry  sur- 
passed the  splendors  of  all  European  playhouses.  The 
traditions  of  the  place  swelled  her  heart,  filled  her 
imagination  and  inclined  her  head  to  reverence.  She 
now  felt  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  something 
consecrated.  Classicism  was  in  the  air;  a  place 
where  a  precious  torch  had  been  passed  on  from  gen- 
eration to  generation. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  reverie  of  veneration 
by  hurried  raps  on  the  stage  floor ;  these  were  followed 
by  three  distinct  knocks.  The  curtain  ascended 
slowly.  A  thrill  of  pleasure  permeated  her  when 
the  cast  came  on.  With  her  experience  of  the  drama 
and  her  ready  perception  she  perceived  that  the 
Comedie  Frangaise  was  not  only  better  tban  other 
companies,  but  entirely  different.  She  noticed  that 


260  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

its  manner  was  suggested  by  that  great  body  of  un- 
written laws  which  none  has  in  his  keeping  but  every 
member  has  in  his  memory  and  respect.  Many  of 
the  women  were  beautiful;  to  a  few  nature  had  not 
contributed  an  embarassment  of  physical  charms.  But 
all — young  and  old— were  graceful,  agreeable,  sym- 
pathetic, ladylike.  They  spoke  with  purity,  in  melo- 
dious voices;  their  gestures  were  agreeable;  their 
movements  harmonious  and  elegant  and  their  attitudes 
always  pleased  the  eye.  There  was  no  false  note,  no 
crudity;  no  awkwardness,  no  roughness.  The  men 
could  command  the  illusion  of  gentlemen — a  form  of 
dramatic  art  apparently  primary  yet  counting  its  prac- 
tical illustration  not  convincingly  exponible  by  the 
greater  part  of  actors  of  Laura's  day,  whose  air,  in- 
tonation and  presence  spelled  good  fellowship  and 
familiarity  rather  than  innate  gentility.  Here  all 
was  smooth  and  finished,  harmonious  and  complete 
and  elaborated  by  consummate  artistry.  Nothing  was 
deemed  trivial.  Attention  was  accorded  the  smallest 
detail.  The  servant  who  took  a  hat  or  a  cane  per- 
formed his  function  as  a  well  ordered  domestic  in  a 
country  famed  for  its  graces ;  the  marquis  who  removed 
his  gloves  removed  them  leisurely,  unostentatiously, 
almost  imperceptibly,  occupied  the  while,  seemingly, 
with  an  infinitude  of  nothings. 

The  actress  who  played  the  part  of  duchess  drew 
Laura  particularly.  She  was  a  genuine  duchess;  a 
woman  who  was  aware  but  not  self-conscious  of  her 
splendid  ancestry ;  who  combated  the  inevitable  ascend- 
ency of  democracy  with  unembittered  mockery,  yet 
flouted  the  uncompromisingly  defiant  attitude  of  the 
reactionary  families  (families  much  more  recent  in 
heraldry  than  that  of  the  Duchess,  in  St.  Germain), 
who  accepted  her  niece's  radical  husband  with  frank 
admiration,  observing  the  while :  ' '  My  dear  girl,  how 
could  you  have  married  such  a  frightful  Republican?" 
then  took  his  arm  affectionately :  "Come  walk  with 
me.  I  want  to  talk  against  your  horrible  government." 
Her  gowns  were  black,  but  her  mood  and  temperament 
were  spirited;  her  tone,  her  manner,  her  carriage  be- 


IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL.  261 

fitted  one  of  her  station  in  the  old  regime,  but  they 
were  real  without  simulation.  She  uttered  distin- 
guished impertinences,  but  everybody  loved  and  for- 
gave her.  She  had  a  thoroughly  aristocratic  temper- 
ament but  a  democratic  mind.  The  same  by  birth 
and  blood  though  contrastingly  ingenuous  was  Suzanne 
de  Valliere,  the  Duchess'  granddaughter,  and  the 
jeune  fille  of  the  comedy.  In  the  actress'  conception, 
Suzanne  was  the  personification  of  the  daughters  of 
centuries  of  le  sang  pur,  with  all  of  the  exclusiveness 
that  the  term  implies,  and  it  summed  up  the  refine- 
ments of  a  privileged  civilization.  She  was  the  final 
issue  of  ages  of  exclusiveness,  of  especial  education, 
of  fastidious  etiquette.  To  produce  this  exquisite 
flower  of  rare  perfume— this  ultra-refined  result— men 
and  women  in  Paris  had  toiled  and  moiled  and  hun- 
gered and  fought  and  bled.  The  Reign  of  Horror 
was  a  protest  that  the  Suzannes  were  born  and  raised 
at  too  great  a  sacrifice.  For  three  hours— whilst  Laura 
was  under  the  charm  of  the  French  actress'  art- 
Laura  protested  against  the  Red  Terror's  protest.  .  No 
price  she  vowed  was  too  dear  for  such  a  rapturous 
creature— the  essence  of  art  and  feminine  enchantment. 
And  the  witchery  had  the  vital  element  of  spon- 
taneity. 

The  curtain  down,  Laura  rose  with  the  voluntary 
exclamation:  "Oh,  Quincy,  I  do  not  want  to  act  any 
more."  Her  efforts,  the  efforts  she  had  seen  at  home, 
seemed  fumbling,  stumbling;  crude,  amateurish,  primi- 
tive, frontier-like,  after  seeing  the  superfine  art  of  a 
perfected  civilization.  How  was  it  possible  to  attempt 
such  perfection?  She  followed  Mrs.  Quincy  down  the 
aisle  mechanically  in  a  daze  of  despair  and  revering 
admiration  at  what  she  had  witnessed.  So  fully  had 
the  performance  gripped  her  from  the  first  act  that  it 
occupied  her  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  joining  the 
promenaders  in  the  foyer.  She  was  aroused  by  a  heavy 
raucous  voice  pitched  in  indignant  tones :  "Oh  Madame ! 
Madame!  Is  it  possible  that  you  would  offer  me  this 
beggar's  coin?" 

It  was  the  garde  robe  woman  who  was  protesting  at 


262  IDEALS  AND  AN  IDOL. 

Mrs.  Quincy's  meager  fee.  Laura  was  hot  with  embar- 
rassment, feeling  that  all  eyes  were  focused  on  her. 
Mrs.  Quincy,  though  not  conversant  with  French, 
caught  the  woman's  meaning,  but  paid  no  attention  to 
her.  Within  a  flash  a  coin  was  flung  at  her  feet.  Laura 
was  too  demoralized  to  think  of  feeing  the  woman  prop- 
erly. She  ran  to  the  exit  desperately  and  there  awaited 
her  companion,  who  came  up  unruffled. 

Laura  said  nothing  in  expostulation,  for  she  blamed 
herself  in  not  remembering  Quincy's  innate  frugality. 
She  decided  then  and  there  never  to  allow  her  escort 
to  fee  anybody  in  the  future.  The  incident  was  a  false 
note  in  the  beautiful  harmony  of  the  evening,  neverthe- 
less, and  Laura  could  not  refrain  from  uttering  a  curt 
and  utterly  displeased  "Good  night"  when  she  turned 
off  the  electric  light. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

WOMAN'S  PAEADISE. 

Laura's  chiding  mood  had  vanished  next  morning 
when  Mrs.  Quincy  brought  in  two  communications,  one 
in  English,  the  other  in  French.  The  first  was  from  the 
American  correspondent,  Stanley,  enclosing  two  seats 
for  the  grand  opera;  the  second  from  Beaupassant  in 
French,  who  made  bold  to  hope  that  perhaps  Miss 
Darnby  might  find  it  convenient  to  be  at  home  (chez 
soi)  in  the  afternoon.  The  French  note  fluttered  her. 
She  was  incomparably  flattered.  Yet  somehow  she 
feared— no  dreaded,  rather— to  meet  him.  Afraid  of 
herself  perhaps.  There  was  something  subtly,  myster- 
iously impressive  in  the  man.  Much  as  she  would  dis- 
cuss the  propriety  (or  safety)  of  receiving  him,  she 
knew  that  she  would  do  so. 

But  in  the  meanwhile  she  must  keep  her  appoint- 
ment with  the  costumer.  She  presented  her  letter  of  in- 
troduction to  a  short,  stout,  healthy,  grey-headed,  mat- 
ter-of-fact business  man,  who  read  the  lines  hurriedly, 
said  he  was  pleased  to  make  her  acquaintance,  called  a 
bulky  woman  whom  he  introduced  as  Mme.  Gervaise 
and  then  disappeared.  Mme.  Gervaise  submitted  a 
sheath  of  patterns,  suggested  one  or  two.  Mrs.  Quincy 
had  several  preferences.  Between  the  three  the  selec- 
tions were  soon  made.  It  was  all  so  business-like,  so 
expeditious,  that  Laura  in  her  disappointment  asked : 
' '  Is  this  all  there  is  to  your  establishment  ?  Where  are 
your  gowns  made?" 

All?  at  Mons.  Chevet 's  establishment?  Mon  Dieu! 
No!  No!  Mons.  Chevet  employs  500  people.  He  has 
twenty  models.  The  whole  upper  floor  which  extends 
to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  is  Mons.  Chevet 's  atelier.  Per- 
haps Madame  would  be  interested  if  she  went  upstairs 

(283) 


264  WOMAN'S  PAEADISE. 

to-day— Friday  ?  There  were  quite  a  number  of  nota- 
ble persons  there  already.  Mme.  Baretta-Worms  was 
there;  and  the  Grand  Duchess  of  Leuchtenberg  and 
Bernhardt  and  many  Americans. 

Through  a  long  corridor  and  up  one  flight  of  stairs 
and  Laura  and  Mrs.  Quincy  were  in  an  environment 
that  recalled  to  Laura  one  of  the  vast  department 
stores  of  her  own  country,  with  the  difference  of 
quietude  and  only  one  instead  of  dozens  of  objects  of 
traffic.  Mons.  Chevet  was  near  the  stair  entrance  and 
when  he  heard  that  Laura  had  come  up  to  inspect  his 
establishment— she  an  American  actress  who  would 
wear  his  gowns— the  bulky  and  sober  man  of  affairs 
dissolved  into  an  amiable  guide.  Did  she  observe  that 
lady  at  the  counter  with  the  rare  sweetness  of  face? 
That  was  Madame  Baretta-Worms.  She  was  always 
considerate,  always  gentle  and  deferred  to  suggestions. 
A  beautiful  woman,  whose  black  tresses,  luminous  eyes 
and  square,  firm  countenance  atoned  for  the  great 
superfluity  of  flesh  from  the  rounded  neck  down.  And 
that  tall  creature  with  the  air  and  manner  of  a  police- 
man? Ah,  a  different  client,  the  Duchess  of  Leuchten- 
berg. She  will  not  suffer  an  instant's  delay  or  an  in- 
finitesimal defect.  One  day  she  slapped  an  essayeuse 
and  terrified  the  whole  force  by  her  temper.  And 
with  all  her  masculine  traits  she  had  the  most  ex- 
quisite taste  in  dress.  When  she  wished  she  could 
surpass  Mdlle.  Bartet  in  grace  of  attire.  That  angu- 
lar woman  with  the  face  of  a  gamine?  Is  it  possi- 
ble Mdlle.  Darnby  did  not  recognize  her?  That  is 
Rejane,  or  Sans  Gene  as  we  call  her.  She  is  Sans  Gene 
in  everything;  with  the  employes,  with  her  raiment,  in 
her  speech.  Everything  goes.  She  is  familiar  with 
everybody  and  everybody  is  familiar  with  her.  Bern- 
hardt? Yes;  Bernhardt  is  here.  See,  there,  amid  the 
models,  watching  the  effect  of  green  in  the  sunlight. 
Very  hard  to  please,  too.  She  insists  upon  having  sev- 
eral models  and  they  must  pose  for  her  and  walk  up 
and  down  innumerable  times.  For  a  while  the  models 
detest  her,  but  after  it  is  all  over,  when  the  Bernhardt 
in  real  kindness  of  feeling  offers  them  a  loge  in  her 


WOMAN'S  PAEADISE.  265 

theatre  and  thanks  them  sincerely  for  their  exertions, 
they  would  do  anything  for  her.  She  is  very  elusive. 
Never  in  one  spot  more  than  a  moment,  never  on  one 
topic  for  more  than  a  minute;  always  turning,  always 
flitting.  You  cannot  catch  a  fair  view  of  her.  That 
(there  was  a  malicious  smile  when  he  shot  the  innu- 
endo) has  been  so  since  she  passed  her  second  youth. 
Still,  a  wonderful  woman,  a  wonderful  woman,  notwith- 
standing that  she  never  pays  her  bills  here.  But  no 
matter,  she  advertises  us  throughout  the  world  so  that 
when  she  does  not  respond  to  our  collector  we  always 
charge  it  to  advertising  expenses.  Those  groups  at  the 
other  end  ?  A  miscellaneous  lot— Americans,  Brazilians, 
Chilians;  women  from  the  North,  from  the  South— 
from  everywhere.  They  are  easily  pleased.  Our 
troubles  are  all  with  the  Germans,  Austrians,  the  Vien- 
nese—and with  the  Parisians.  We — 

Laura  ceased  listening.  She  was  riveted  by  the  sight 
of  several  women  gliding  up  and  down  the  aisles — to 
the  south  of  the  vast  hall— before  some  clients.  She 
drew  nearer.  They  were  living  manikins;  tall,  well- 
proportioned,  young,  with  slender  waists.  Their  gait 
slow,  languorous,  elegant. 

Ah,  yes,  our  models,  was  Mons.  Chevet's  comment. 
From  morning  until  evening  they  have  nothing  to  do 
but  don  robes  and  promenade  through  the  apartments 
before  our  clients.  Unless  our  customer  be  exceedingly 
hard  to  please,  they  walk  by  the  customer  once,  offer- 
ing the  front  and  back  view  of  a  toilet.  But  they 
are  so  difficult  to  find  and  yet  more  difficult  to 
retain— the  models,  not  the  clients.  Artists  are  al- 
ways luring  our  women  away  to  their  studios,  and 
when  it  isn't  a  studio  it  is  a  private  establish- 
ment offered  by  a  wealthy  foreigner  or  a  rich  stock- 
oroker.  Models  are  highly  paid.  When  they  are  vir- 
tuous (sage)  they  are  so  absolutely;  and  absolute 
virtue  with  an  unmarried  Frenchwoman  who  must  earn 
an  income  means  a  rage  for  an  accumulation  of  francs. 
They  soon  have  a  respectable  dot  and  then  they  are 
lost  to  us  forever.  The  others— those  who  go  to  the 
boursier  and  the  rich  foreigner— sometimes  come  back. 


266  WOMAN'S  PAEADISE. 

You  (he  meant  the  American  women)  are  easy  to  serve. 
You  pay  well,  you  select  quickly.  Only  on  one  point  are 
you  difficult:  You  will  not  tolerate  the  insolence  of  the 
essayeuse.  You  will  not  accept  abuse  from  them,  which, 
in  Europe,  is  considered  their  rooted  perogative. 
Hence  the  only  time  the  essayeuse  is  on  time  is  when 
she  has  an  engagement  with  an  American.  She  is  at 
your  mercy,  not  you  at  hers.  All  our  women  are 
afraid  of  her.  We  should  wish  to  be  honored  with 
Madame 's  presence  when  our  inventions  are  presented. 
They  are  our  two  gala  days  of  the  year.  We  draw  a 
high  curtain  at  the  back  of  the  room  and  there  the 
models  don  our  new  creations.  When  all  is  ready  they 
step  forth  and  promenade  around  the  hall  and  then  we 
note  the  effect  upon  our  employes  and  upon  the  specta- 
tors. Ah,  yes,  it  is  a  difficult  profession,  this  of  pro- 
viding gowns.  Racial  traits,  climatic  conditions  must 
always  be  remembered.  We  must  please  the  whole 
world,  you  know.  But  if  we  please  Bernhardt  or  Bartet 
we  are  quite  sure  to  please  Europe  and  that  quite  com- 
pensates us  for  the  superstition  these  charming  ladies 
have  in  never  paying  their  bills.  However,  they  ask 
for  them— their  accounts— and  return  them  with  rigid 
regularity  if  an  error  is  made.  You  know  nothing  of 
that  in  New  York?  you  shrewd  Americans  who— Ah, 
true !  you  get  your  gowns  here !  Mons.  Chevet  talked 
on  and  on.  The  loquaciousness  of  the  man  who  was 
so  frugal  of  his  time — who  would  meet  only  by  ap- 
pointment very  late  in  the  morning— puzzled  Laura  for 
a  few  moments,  but  in  reflecting  it  fell  to  her  that  his 
calling  was  the  all  in  all  in  the  world  for  him,  so  once 
started  he  knew  no  end.  She  had  ceased  to  listen.  She 
was  thinking  of  Beaupassant,  and  noticing  her  preoc- 
cupied air,  Mrs.  Quincy  interrupted  Mons.  Chevet 's 
expatiations : 

"My  dear,  don't  forget  your  engagement!" 
The  hint  brought  Mons.   Chevet,   who  understood 
English,  to  a  halt.    He  bade  them  a  hasty  au  revoir. 

Thus  released,  they  returned  to  the  Champs  Elysee, 
where,  two  hours  later,  Beaupassant 's  card  came  up. 
There  was  a  smile  in  the  eyes  (not  on  the  lips)  of  the 


WOMAN'S  PARADISE.  267 

novelist,  a  smile  matured  by  the  frank  charm  of  her 
person,  spreading  radiance  around  her.  She  extended 
her  hand  cordially,  expecting,  of  course,  that  he  would 
press  it;  instead  'he  raised  it  gently,  even  tenderly,  to 
his  inclined  head  and  pressed  his  lips  to  it.  Never, 
outside  the  theatre,  had  she  experienced  this.  It  came 
to  her  most  personally  that  she  was  in  France. 

But  she  had  determined  to  be  terribly  direct  with 
him— to  express  her  suspicion  at  once:  "Monsieur 
Beaupassant,  do  you  really  think  I'm  worth  a  study 
for  a  short  story?" 

His  look  told  her  she  was  mistaken.  The  buoyancy 
vanished  from  his  eyes;  it  was  replaced  by  a  disap- 
pointed resignation  which  frequent  disappointment  of 
a  similar  kind  begets. 

"I'm  interested,  yes;  but  not  professionally.  I  had 
hoped  that  you  would  forget  the  novelist  in  me— so  few 
women  do." 

His  voice  and  manner  confirmed  his  sincerity.  She 
could  only  say:  "Pardon  me." 

That  he  could  not  immediately  forgive  her  she  per- 
ceived in  his  reply.  "I  called  to  suggest  a  visit  to 
Napoleon's  tomb— all  Americans,  men  women  and  chil- 
dren, are,  I  am  told,  more  interested  in  Napoleon  than 
the  French." 

She  apprehended  that  he  had  changed  his  inten- 
tions, because  of  her  suspicious  question;  no  doubt  he 
had  intended  a  drive  through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  or 
a  call  at  some  distinguished  Parisian's  house  whose 
afternoon  it  was.  But  recantation  would  be  awkward 
—their  aquaintance  was  too  young  for  that.  She  could 
not  protest  against  a  carriage  even.  In  crossing  the 
corridor  she  noticed  the  hotel  attendants  glanced  at  her 
escort  with  furtive  awe  and  in  the  drive  of  four  squares 
up  the  avenue,  which  was  gorgeously  golden  under  the 
sun's  rays,  there  were  salutations  to  the  right  and  to 
the  left— occupants  of  glittering  vehicles  going  in  the 
same  and  coming  from  an  opposite  direction.  The  salut- 
ing women  did  not  deign  to  look  at  Laura ;  their  bows 
and  smiles  were  for  Beaupassant.  The  men  gave  her  a 
swift  appraising  glance  in  lifting  their  hats.  Once  off 


268  WOMAN 'S  PARADISE. 

the  resplendent  way  and  in  turning  toward  the  river 
the  greetings  ceased.  They  passed  the  Oriental-like 
building,  which  had  the  appearance  of  a  monstrous  bird 
about  to  take  wing.  Directly  below  this  exotic  edifice 
was  a  bridge;  in  crossing  it,  as  Laura  was  absorbed  in 
the  car-like  boats,  filled  with  passengers,  flitting  back 
and  forth,  Beaupassant  broke  silence:  "The  Seine  is 
picturesque,  isn't  it?  When  a  young  man,  in  the  years 
I  was  imprisoned  in  a  ministerial  office,  the  river  was 
my  only  joy.  On  a  Sunday,  in  a  boat,  with  fifty  sous 
in  my  pocket,  I  was  completely  happy.  To  row,  to  be 
on  the  water,  compensated  me  for  the  six  days  of  miser- 
able drudgery  for  the  government.  I  have  always  loved 
the  Seine  for  the  relief  it  gave  me  to  continue  my  liter- 
ary efforts.  I  love  rivers,  lakes,  oceans.  Upon  them 
one  finds  ideal  quietude. ' ' 

There  was  a  dreamy,  pleasurable  expression  in  his 
eye  as  he  looked  upon  the  stream.  Laura  saw  that  he 
was  not  a  staring,  avid  observer ;  he  did  not  observe  at 
all;  he  became  passive,  or  more  exactly  objective,  and 
allowed  objects  and  people  and  events  to  impress  him. 
As  he  sat  there,  his  eyes  half  closed,  he  was  impres- 
sionability incarnate.  Presently  the  carriage  turned 
into  a  broad  street  with  an  infinite  vista.  In  the  mass, 
the  thoroughfare  was  beautiful;  in  detail,  heteroclitic 
Here  a  shop,  there  an  imposing  residence  of  ancient 
aspect.  A  public  cabman  lounging  a  few  feet  from  a 
stiff  exclusive-appearing  coachman  whose  horses  and 
wheels  proclaimed  extreme  privacy.  "This  is  Boule- 
vard Saint  Germain",  Beaupassant  volunteered.  "Once 
the  most  aristocratic  street  in  Paris,  the  street  of  the 
old  nobility.  There  have  been  many,  many  defections 
in  the  last  century,  for  these  people  did  not  recognize 
the  empire  any  more  than  they  do  the  Republic.  For 
them  government  suspended  with  Charles  X.  and 
the  tradition  is  handed  down  from  one  generation  to 
another.  Many  have  become  reconciled  to  the  new 
order  of  things,  but  there  are  enough  dukes  and  mar- 
quises and  counts,  or  rather  enough  Duchesses,  Mar- 
quises and  Countesses,  to  make  a  society  which  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  rest  of  Paris— their  rela- 


WOMAN'S  PAEADISE.  269 

tions  are  all  with  the  aristocracy  of  other  nations. 
Here,  in  Paris,  they  intermarry ;  they  live  among  them- 
selves—they live  in  the  past." 

"Do  you  ridicule  them?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  I  am  one  of  their  circle— just  as  I 
am  a  Bonapartist  and  a  Republican,  for  I  go  every- 
where when  I  go  at  all." 

"There,  that  typifies  the  Saint  Germain  set."  Laura 
looked  as  he  indicated.  Under  a  row  of  lime  trees  an 
old-fashioned  barouche.  A  fat,  white-haired,  red-faced, 
scrupulously  shaven  coachman  sat  dozing  on  the  box. 
Below,  on  a  bench,  an  elderly  lady  and  a  nun.  The 
first,  in  plain  black,  large,  rather  stout;  the  counten- 
ance severely,  uncompromisingly  aristocratic — listen- 
ing to  the  reading  of  Bousset. 

"That  looks  like  Danton."  She  pointed  to  a  bold, 
heroic  statue  placed  in  what  appeared  to  be  the  heart 
of  aristocracy. 

"It  is  he.  And  the  memorial  to  the  great  revolu- 
tionist was  put  here  designedly— to  remind  the  mon- 
archists that  their  form  of  government  expired  in 
France  a  century  ago." 

The  carriage's  course  was  diverted  through  ancient 
and  narrow  streets  which  were  lined  with  odd  chop 
houses,  queer  little  shops,  sinister  liquor  dens,  disrep- 
utable curiosity  stores  and,  above,  a  miscellaneous 
horde  of  lodgers.  Suddenly,  and  to  Laura  quite  unex- 
pectedly, a  broad,  sweeping,  refulgent  opening,  an 
esplanade  dotted  with  cannons  and  bent,  crippled  men 
in  fatigue  uniforms.  In  the  background  a  church-like 
building  with  a  halo  of  gold  that  glowed  in  the  sunlight ; 
a  proud,  stately  edifice;  the  glittering  dome  noble  and 
imposingly  impressive.  A  moment  later  the  cabman 
stopped:  "Ici,  monsieur!" 

Beaupassant  nodded  genially  to  the  low  bow  of  the 
old  guard  at  the  door.  A  second  later  Laura  was  trans- 
fixed. She  could  see  nothing  but  a  high  altar  of  holy 
emblems  clustered  about  a  golden  prefiguration  of  the 
Christ.  From  there  descended  a  hallowed  light;  soft 
and  purple,  that  transformed  the  church  in  a  super- 


270  WOMAN'S  PARADISE. 

natural  glamour.  Laura's  eyes  followed  this  reful- 
gence, which  was  lost  in  a  huge  basin  in  the  center 
of  the  temple.  Slowly,  reverently,  Laura  approached 
the  balustrade  of  the  opening.  It  was  a  crypt;  and 
in  the  middle,  on  a  high  elevation,  slendor,  masterly 
fashioned  caryatides  which  perform  the  function  of 
pillars  for  the  base.  And  on  this  a  coffin,  simple  in 
design,  but  massive,  imposing,  impressive.  There  were 
other  tombs  in  this  fane— where  some  of  the  dem- 
ocratic conqueror's  relations  lie— but  everything,  the 
church,  the  Christ-inspired  altar  itself,  were  lost,  for- 
gotten, in  the  supreme  presence  of  that  sarcophagus; 
it  drew  one's  vision  and  thought  compellingly.  The 
sacred  edifice— the  church— seemed  merely  a  shelter  for 
the  grave.  In  the  rounded  excavation  a  series  of 
angelic  figures  bearing  laurel  wreaths.  But  between 
these  statues  of  sanctity  were  tattered  things  that  told 
more  eloquently  than  monuments  or  volumnes  the  story 
of  him  whom  they  encircle.  They  were  flags;  ragged, 
riddled,  dusty,  bepowdered;  emblems  taken  from  the 
vanquished  enemy  at  Rivoli,  at  Jena,  at  Wagram,  at 
Austerlitz.  They  hung  in  clusters,  bowed,  drooping  as 
if  weeping  for  their  captor.  Laura  turned  away  from 
the  emotional  spectacle.  Her  eyes  again  met  the  altar, 
and  there  on  the  marble  tablet,  immediately  above  the 
portals  which  lead  to  the  subterranean  entrance  of  the 
vault,  was  written  in  golden  letters  the  words:  "I 
desire  that  my  ashes  lie  upon  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 
amidst  the  French  people  whom  I  loved  so  well. ' '  Well 
may  caste  and  political  strife  end  here;  well  may  the 
quarrels  of  nations  be  hushed ;  well  may  racial  hatreds 
cease  in  sight  of  that  coffin,  for  even  Clio,  the  judge, 
the  justice  of  history,  lowers  her  stylus  and  gazes 
mournfully  upon  the  casket  whose  contents  is  all  that 
remains  of  many  crowns  and  thrones  and  world  revo- 
lutionizing deeds  and  plans— Death. 

Beaupassant  said  nothing,  but  Laura  knew  as  surely 
as  if  he  had  confessed  it  that  he  was  noting  the  effect 
of  the  scene  on  her.  At  the  exit  when  he  saluted  the 
guard  in  military  fashion,  it  occurred  to  her  that  he 
had  been  a  soldier,  a  vocation  which  seems  irrecon- 


WOMAN'S  PARADISE.  271 

cilable  with  the  author.  When  well  away  from  les 
Invalides  she  broke  the  silence  interrogatively:  "Were 
you  in  the  army?" 

' '  Yes,  I  was  in  the  Franco-Prussian  slaughter.  Yes, 
I  know  war.  I  know  what  an  army  means.  It  means 
a  mob  of  some  hundreds  of  thousand  men;  marching 
day  and  night  without  rest ;  thinking  of  nothing,  study- 
ing nothing,  learning  nothing,  reading  nothing ;  useless 
to  others  and  to  themselves;  sleeping  anywhere  and 
everywhere,  rotting  in  dirt;  living  as  brutes,  pillaging 
towns,  burning  villages,  ruining  the  masses.  Then  there 
is  an  encounter  with  another  agglomeration  of  brutes; 
a  horrible  clash ;  lakes  of  blood  are  shed ;  piles  of  human 
flesh  are  mixed  with  the  reddened,  muddy  earth; 
corpses  are  strewn  for  miles  around ;  arms  and  legs  are 
torn  from  bodies,  brains  are  blown  out.  And  all  this 
without  good  to  anybody.  And  while  men  are  miser- 
ably perishing  behind  a  hedge  or  in  a  dug-out  their 
parents,  their  wives,  their  children  are  dying  of  hun- 
ger. This  is  what  is  called  valor,  courage,  heroism; 
dying  for  one's  country,  for  humanity,  for  a  noble 
cause.  As  a  matter  of  fact  soldiers  are  the  scourge 
of  the  world.  We  endeavor  to  solve,  to  control  nature ; 
we  fight  ignorance,  superstition  and  every  dark  obsta- 
cle in  order  to  make  our  existence  less  miserable.  Cer- 
tain men— sages,  philosophers,  philanthropists,  scien- 
tists—devote their  lives  to  things  that  will  aid  and 
elevate  their  fellow  man.  They  work  incessantly  at 
their  useful  tasks ;  make  discovery  after  discovery ;  ex- 
pand our  knowledge ;  widen  the  scope  of  science ;  give 
every  day  to  the  human  understanding  a  new  thought ; 
add  each  day  to  the  comfort,  to  the  strength  and  to  the 
intelligence  of  their  country.  War  is  declared.  In  six 
months  the  chief  butchers,  called  generals,  destroy 
twenty  years  of  effort,  of  patience,  of  the  result  of 
genius.  And  this  is  called  purifying  a  nation.  I  have 
seen  men  transformed  into  brutes,  seen  them  degen- 
erate into  savages;  seen  them  kill  wantonly  for  the 
devilish  delight  of  killing;  kill  because  of  terror,  be- 
cause of  bravado.  Law  does  not  exist ;  it  is  dead ;  and 
when  all  idea  of  justice  had  disappeared  I  saw  innocent 


272  WOMAN'S  PARADISE. 

people  shot  who  were  found  on  the  highway  and  were 
suspected  simply  because  they  betrayed  fear.  I  have 
seen  dogs  killed  while  chained  to  the  front  doors  of 
their  masters,  simply  to  try  the  aim  of  a  new  revolver ; 
I  have  seen  cows  riddled  that  were  pasturing  peace- 
ably, riddled  for  no  other  reason  than  to  'try  a  shot 
at  something.'  Invade  a  country,  cut  the  throat  of  a 
man  who  is  defending  his  home  because  he  wears  a 
blouse  and  not  a  kepi;  burn  the  houses  of  wretched 
people  who  are  without  bread.  Break  the  furniture ; 
steal  all  the  valuables;  drink  the  wine  found  in  the 
cellar;  violate  the  women  met  in  the  streets;  burn  up 
millions  upon  millions  of  pounds  of  powder  and  leave 
in  the  wake  awful  misery  and  unspeakable  diseases— 
that  is  war!  glorious  war!" 

"What  have  military  men  done  to  prove  that  they 
are  intelligent?  Nothing  whatever.  What  have  they 
invented?  Cannon  and  gun— nothing  more.  The  in- 
ventor of  the  wheelbarrow  has  done  more  by  the  sim- 
ple idea  of  placing  a  stick  through  a  wheel  than  the 
inventor  of  modern  fortifications.  What  have  we  in- 
herited from  Greece?  Books  and  statues.  What  made 
the  grandeur  of  Greece,  her  wars  or  her  intellectual 
productions  ?  Was  it  the  invasion  of  the  Romans  that 
saved  her  from  falling  to  the  most  hideous  material- 
ism? Was  it  the  invasion  of  the  barbarians  that  res- 
cued and  regenerated  Rome?  Did  Napoleon  continue 
the  great  intellectual  movement  commenced  by  the 
philosophers  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century?  I 
hold  that  since  every  government  arrogates  to  itself  the 
right  of  sending  people  to  their  death  the  people  have 
the  right  to  destroy  every  government  which  has  failed 
to  maintain  peace.  My  people— the  French— have  from 
time  to  time  defended  themselves  and  they  were  right 
in  doing  so.  Nobody  has  an  absolute  right  to  govern 
others;  but  if  such  an  unwarranted  privilege  is  as- 
sumed the  assumption  should  carry  with  it  beneficent 
results.  Every  government  should  avoid  a  war  as  care- 
fully as  a  captain  avoids  the  sinking  of  his  ship.  When 
a  captain  loses  his  ship  judgment  is  passed  on  him,  and 
if  he  has  been  negligent  or  even  incompetent  he  is  con- 


WOMAN'S  PARADISE.  273 

demned.  Why  not  bring  governments  to  trial  when- 
ever they  declare  war?  If  the  people  would  view  the 
case  in  that  light ;  if  they  themselves  passed  judgment 
upon  murderous  powers ;  if  they  would  refuse  to  allow 
themselves  to  be  killed  without  reason;  if  they  would 
use  their  weapons  against  those  who  command  them 
to  shoot,  then  there  were  an  end  to  war.  But  that  day 
will  never  come,  I  fear." 

With  a  change  of  thought  not  to  be  expected  from 
one  so  highly  organized  and  cultivated  he  abandoned 
war,  asking  abruptly :  "You  mentioned  the  opera  as  we 
came  up  the  boulevard ;  it  would  afford  me  great  pleas- 
ure to  escort  you. ' ' 

Laura  explained  that  two  seats  only  had  been  sent 
her,  one  of  which  would  be  occupied  by  Mrs.  Quincy. 

"Never  mind  them.  I  have— or  can  have— a  box." 
And  with  the  understanding  of  one  profoundly  versed 
in  femininity  he  tempted  her  by  adding  artfully :  ' '  This 
— Friday— is  one  of  the  subscription  nights  at  the 
opera.  Everybody  will  be  there.  I  shall  be  happy  to 
introduce  you  to  some  notable  people." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"FAUST'S"  FINALE. 

If  not  more  distinguished  Beaupassant  looked  more 
refined  in  evening  vestment.  His  broad,  belligerent 
shoulders  were  diminished  under  the  black  cloth;  his 
strong,  aggressive  neck  was  placated  behind  the  high 
collar  and  white  tie.  His  top  hat  gave  him  height. 
His  eyes  spoke  his  admiration  for  her  appearance  in 
white.  He  looked  admiringly  for  some  moments  before 
he  said  a  word.  Her  gown,  though  seemingly  simple, 
was  a  study  of  the  couturiere's  art,  notwithstanding 
its  American  make;  it  was  fleecy  and  there  were  deli- 
cate folds  and  subtle  ornamentations. 

The  magnificent  monument  with  its  legend,  "1'Acad- 
demie  Nationale  de  Musique,"  stood  out  boldly  under 
the  dark  blue  heavens;  to  the  public  massed  in  front, 
it  displayed  its  wide  ornate  facade.  The  marble  colon- 
nade of  its  gallery  was  illuminated  in  a  high,  glittering 
light  by  invisible  electricity.  Upon  the  sweeping  space 
in  front  were  cavalrymen  directing  the  circulation  of 
the  crowd  and  the  vehicles  which  swarmed  from  every 
direction  of  Paris— vehicles  that  revealed,  for  a  mo- 
ment, through  their  lowered  windows,  pale,  aristocratic 
heads,  en  cheveux,  in  high  relief  from  rich,  light-hued 
gowns.  Coupes  and  landaus  drew  into  line  under  the 
arcades  reserved  for  them  and  stopped  a  few  instants 
—just  long  enough  to  allow  the  women  of  society,  on 
the  fringe  of  society,  and  those  out  of  society  to 
descend;  a  descension  of  physical  loveliness  divinely 
clad.  Then  came  the  ascension.  A  stairway  beyond 
the  dream  and  imagination  of  a  poet — it  was  the  con- 
ception of  one  who  had  been  allowed  to  discount  an 
atom  of  heaven.  The  first  flight  of  marble  immensely 
broad  and  easily,  almost  imperceptibly  inclined  upward, 

(274) 


"FAUST'S"  FINALE.  275 

ending  in  a  landing  spacious  as  a  theatre  foyer  and 
resumed  on  either  side  in  flights  as  white  and  graceful 
as  angel 's  wings.  The  whole  an  inspiration  in  architec- 
ture. It  was  impossible  for  Laura  to  perceive  that  this 
fairy-like  scene  was  not  part  of  the  performance  itself ; 
it  was  an  ascension  of  the  fairies,  an  endless  ascent  of 
women,  whose  necks  and  ears  scintillated  with  jewels, 
whose  long  gowns  trailed  upon  the  stairway.  The 
supremely  beautiful  entrance  was  hardly  preparatory 
for  the  auditorium.  The  first  was  ethereal,  celestial 
even ;  it  had  the  purity  and  whiteness  of  a  thing  super- 
terrestrial.  The  second  had  the  brilliancy  of  a  thor- 
oughly material  world.  That  essentially  materialistic 
hue,  gold  predominated.  Gilding  everywhere;  on  the 
proscenium  arch— crowded  with  allegorical  figures 
—on  the  boxes.  But  there  was  modifying  red,  too, 
and  this  rich  tone  aided  in  transmuting  garishness 
into  a  regal  luxuriousness.  There  were  masses  of 
boxes — on  either  side  and  encircling  the  entire  main 
balcony.  Though  many,  and  orientally  ornate,  each 
loge  had  an  aspect  of  individuality,  of  strict  privacy. 
The  balconies,  above  the  main,  were  numerous— how 
many  Laura  could  not  count  for  the  brilliancy  of  the 
scene— and  they  were  unobstrusive,  being  narrow, 
seemingly  a  mere  strip  against  the  walls,  which  gave 
the  auditorium  an  air  of  immeasurable  vastness,  an  ap- 
pearance of  great  space  for  the  purpose  of  throwing 
the  boxes  in  attractive  perspective.  Indeed,  the  opera 
seemed  to  have  been  designed  for  a  sovereign  and  his 
court.  Looking  at  the  stalls  Laura  felt  herself  in  the 
midst  of  ancient  aristocracy  such  as  she  had  seen  pic- 
tured of  Louis  XV 's  time.  The  pit  was  massed,  unin- 
dividual,  obscured.  Only  the  loges  and  their  apparently 
aristocratic  occupants  were  salient. 

Beaupassant  had  remained  considerately  silent.  He 
noticed  Laura  was  absorbed  in  observation,  but  when 
she  asked:  "You  have  heard  'Faust'  frequently,  I  pre- 
sume?" a  shadow  of  a  smile  flitted  ove<r  his  counten- 
ance. "Very  frequently.  As  a  youth  I  was  present  at 
the  first  performance.  It  was  at  the  Theatre  Lyrique. 
Personally,  the  music  captivated  me,  but  the  audience 


276  "FAUST'S"  FINALE. 

was  cold.  The  critics  pronounced  the  work  a  failure. 
Two  weeks  later  the  opera  burst  into  a  striking  suc- 
cess. ' ' 

A  rapid  thumping  on  the  stage— as  if  some  one  were 
calling  the  auditors  to  order— followed  by  three  solemn, 
prolonged  knocks,  such  as  Laura  had  heard  at  the 
Theatre  Frangais  the  night  before.  The  house  hushed. 
A  succession  of  light  taps  from  the  baton  on  the  con- 
ductor's desk.  An  instant's  deep  silence  and  the  first 
notes  of  the  mystic  prelude  ascended  from  the  depths 
of  the  orchestra  and  filled  the  auditorium  with  the  in- 
visible and  irresistible  influence  called  music  which  pen- 
etrated the  spectators,  touched  their  nerves,  imparted 
to  them  a  commingling  of  poetic  and  material  fever, 
and  infused  the  air  with  sound  waves  that  to  a  fine 
intelligence  suggested  the  ultimate  futility  of  knowl- 
edge, far  better  than  the  dark  auditorium,  the  somber 
stage  and  the  despairing  gestures  of  the  old  erudite 
Faust. 

Two  lines  of  the^text  clearly  enunciated  by  the  tenor 
sunk  themselves  in  Laura's  understanding: 

"Je  veux  un  tresor  qui  les  contient  tous, 
Je  veux  la  jeunesse. " 

It  came  to  her  then,  as  such  thoughts  always  come, 
instantly,  inspiringly— that  if  youth  be  a  treasure  to 
men  how  much  more  precious  was  it  to  her  own  sex- 
to whom  nature  has  imparted  a  mysterious  magnet 
which  ceases  to  attract  as  years  succeed  one  another; 
whose  attractions  consists  of  a  loveliness  predicated 
on  youth. 

The  scenic  effect  of  the  second  act  thrilled  her.  This 
was  mediaeval  Germany— a  world  living,  throbbing, 
complete.  Not  a  single  touch  or  figure  from  the  im- 
mense and  picturesque  canvas  was  wanting.  The  illu- 
sion of  a  colorful  town  with  all  its  variegated  inhab- 
itants was  fulfilled  to  the  last  detail.  Laura  forgot 
there  was  a  stage.  In  narrow,  crowded  streets  she 
saw  moving,  pulsating  humanity  lifted  to  an  ideal 
sphere  by  Gounod's  genius.  As  at  the  Theatre  Fran- 
$ais,  every  character,  however  minute ,  contributed 


"FAUST'S"  FINALE.  277 

naturally  to  an  harmonious  whole.  Everybody  had  a 
part  to  play  as  well  as  a  note  to  sing,  and  in  giving  of 
themselves  perfectly  they  made  the  picture  perfect. 
Everything  in  that  temple  of  music  seemed  perfect. 
The  audience  as  an  audience  assumed  its  function  in 
the  scheme  of  art  as  unconsciously  as  the  artists.  Be- 
tween the  second  and  the  third  act  Laura's  eyes  if 
not  her  ears  were  fully  occupied  studying  the  house, 
from  the  hundred  musicians,  just  below  her,  who 
formed  an  unrelieved  mass  of  black  to  the  resplendency 
in  the  salle. 

Beaupassant,     being    silent,     unobserving,     Laura 
turned  to  him. 

"Are  you  never  interested  in  the  audience?" 
"In  the  feminine  part,  on  opera  nights,  yes,  always. 
But  only  when  the  curtain  is  up,  when  Gounod  is  para- 
mount; Gounod,  who  especially  appeals  to  the  heart 
of  woman,  who  is  the  tone  poet  par  excellence  of  love. 
Then  I  watch  them,  your  sex,  I  mean.  They  listen  to 
music  as  if  they  were  under  the  influence  of  a  divine 
fascination;  listen  to  it  as  if  in  the  vague  immobility 
of  a  dream  that  at  times  stirs  them  softly  like  the 
first  touch  of  a  divine  thrill.  All,  in  listening,  are  a 
poetical  study;  their  faces  heighten,  become  by  turns 
spiritual  and  radiant  with  a  tender  ecstasy,  their  eyes 
become  either  moist  or  languorous  and  turn  aside  or 
are  raised  heavenward.  The  fans  that  move  toward 
bosoms  are  like  softly  descending  flakes  of  snow;  or, 
better  still,  like  a  swoon-like  palpitation  of  the  white 
wing  of  a  wounded  bird.  Here  and  there  I  see  hands 
fall  helplessly  in  the  folds  of  beautiful  gowns ;  or  I  see 
that  other  hands  are  used  to  lift  the  small  ivory-ribbed 
screens  to  faces  that  are  smiling  ecstatically.  The  wist- 
ful, distended  mouths  with  their  parted  lips  seem  to 
me  to  breathe  a  fugitive  sensuousness.  Not  a  woman 
with  a  soul  for  music  dares  face  music  fully;  I  mean 
dares  to  look  straight  at  the  stage  while  the  entrancing 
tones  touch  her  nerves.  You  may  notice  that  many 
incline  heads  toward  their  shoulders  as  though  they 
were  listening  to  some  one  who  was  whispering  some- 
thing deep  and  responsive  into  their  ears.  At  certain 


278  "FAUST'S"  FINALE. 

moments  the  heart-drawn  notes  of  the  melancholy 
violoncello  arouse  them  from  their  enrapture;  then  a 
fleeting  pallor  flits  over  their  countenances— translu- 
cencies  of  a  second,  hardly  visible,  which  are  followed 
by  momentary  trembling.  Suspended  above  the  spheric 
sound,  caressing  and  vibrant,  they  seem  to  absorb  with 
their  entire  entity  the  song,  the  emotion  of  the  voice 
and  the  strains  of  the  instruments.  The  whole  is  a  mass 
of  love— for  women." 

He  had  just  spoken  the  word  "love"  when  the  cur- 
tain disclosed  the  garden  scene  in  the  third  act.  Im- 
mediately a  sort  of  amatory  fever  spread  through  the 
auditors,  for  never  had  this  music— which  is  essen- 
tially love's  sighs — been  more  ardently  breathed  by 
two  voices  on  the  stage.  The  vocalists  were  no  longer 
two  actors.  They  were  two  beings  of  the  ideal  world- 
nay,  they  were  not  two  beings  but  two  voices:  the 
eternal  voice  of  the  man  who  loves,  the  eternal  voice 
of  the  woman  who  yields,  and  together  they  sighed  the 
poetry  of  human  rapture. 

When  Faust  sang:  "Laisse-moi,  laisse-moi  contem- 
pler  ton  visage,"  there  were  in  those  notes  such  an 
accent  of  adoration,  of  transport  and  of  supplication 
that  longing  seemed  to  fill  all  hearts.  Laura  was  quite 
overcome  by  the  intensity  of  the  scene  and  not  until 
the  final  bar— the  sad,  perennial  echo  of  lovely  woman 
stooping  to  folly — had  died  away  did  she  regain  com- 
posure. Beaupassant  then  proposed  a  promenade  in 
the  foyer.  Two  streams  were  already  moving  gently, 
leisurely  in  those  stately  corridors  whose  ceilings  were 
frescoed  by  a  master's  brush,  whose  walls  were  a  suc- 
cession of  pictorial  masterpieces,  whose  illuminations 
and  decorations  gave  Laura  a  haunting  idea  of  para- 
dise. As  on  the  boulevard  the  day  before,  Beaupassant 
was  frequently  saluted  and  when  not  openly  greeted 
was  recognized  everywhere.  At  the  end  of  the  foyer, 
near  the  buffet,  he  was  stopped.  "Tien!  c'est  Guy," 
exclaimed  one  of  them,  a  man  of  somewhat  common 
stature  but  of  an  extraordinary  head ;  large,  heavy ;  the 
hair  absolutely  white  but  of  the  whiteness  seen  on 
negroes.  The  eyes,  too,  were  African;  the  skin  had 


"FAUST'S"  FINALE.  27S 

a  yellow  tinge,  but  the  features  were  peculiarly  French. 
Beaupassant  presented  him :  "Monsieur  Dumas."  Then 
to  the  other  "Monsieur  Bourgeon"— thin,  dark  hair 
and  mustache,  high  cheek  bones,  salient  mouth,  the 
complexion  pale,  a  stoop  in  the  shoulders.  A  slender, 
rather  ungraceful  man  but  the  ordinary  aspect  re- 
trieved by  a  pair  of  wonderfully  luminous  eyes,  soft, 
forbearing  deferential  even,  yet  keenly  penetrating. 
Dumas  offered  a  smooth  womanly  hand;  Bourgeon  a 
hard,  bony  one.  Both  were  fixedly  interested  when 
Beaupassant  mentioned  her  country  and  profession. 
Dumas  inquired  of  Mojeska.  It  had  been  his  wish  to 
see  her  play  his  Marguerite  Gauthier.  She  made  the 
part  so  spiritual,  he  was  told.  And— he  hesitated  here 
as  if  it  were  an  effort  to  recall  the  name— Rhea— did 
she  know  an  actress  named  Rhea?  A  Belgian,  he  be- 
lieved. She  had  called  on  him  once  and  wanted  a  new 
play.  A  persistent  person,  not  easy  to  be  rid  of.  He 
was  surprised  to  hear  that  Mojeska  had  retired  and 
that  the  name  Rhea  was  unknown.  He  added  it  was  in 
his  mind  to  know  the  United  States  personally.  He 
would  go  over  soon  and  make  a  study  of  the  country. 
Was  there  anything  beyond  Chicago?  California? 
That  was  farther  than  Chicago?  Which  way  and  how 
far  from  Chicago  was  New  Orleans?  Beaupassant  in- 
tervened; how  many  times  must  he  (Dumas)  be  set 
right  on  American. geography?  Had  he  not  been  told — 
A  bell  resounded  throughout  the  corridors.  The 
countering  procession  dissolved.  The  first  notes  of  the 
prison  scene  dispelled  in  Laura  all  thought  for  the  time 
of  her  newly-made  acquaintances,  though  ever  after 
she  saw  indelibly  M.  Dumas'  negro  white  hair  and 
Bourgeon's  wonderful  eyes.  The  ballet  music  of  that 
earlier  scene  in  the  work,  with  the  sensuous  visions 
it  conjured  up,  now  sounded  as  the  ominous  tones  of 
fate,  a  prelude  to  prison  tragedy.  The  somber  scene 
brought  a  sinking  of  the  heart  and  a  terror  to  the 
luxuriously  sensitized  feelings.  But  gradually  its  psy- 
chic effort  changed.  The  diabolical  evil,  the  wringing 
remorse  were  mollified  by  deep  repentance;  and  then 
—a  burst  of  spiritual  light,  of  a  celestial  pardon.  To 


280  "FAUST'S"  FINALE. 

one  side  Mephistopheles,  the  incarnation  of  the  sin- 
ister ;  to  the  other  Faust,  the  damned  sin ;  in  the  center 
Marguerite,  a  symbol  of  heaven's  clemency.  At  the 
beginning  Satan's  voice  was  dominant,  leeringly  tri- 
umphant. Faust's  the  piteous  despair  of  a  condemned 
criminal  who  has  but  one  bare  moment  to  live  and  then 
must  be  damned  perpetually;  who  wishes  the  ever- 
moving  spheres  of  heaven  to  stand  still  that  time  might 
oease ;  who  would  leap  up  to  his  God,  who  in  his  agony 
imagines  Christ's  blood  streaming  in  the  heavens,  one 
drop  of  which  would  save  his  soul.  Marguerite,  all 
reverent  confidence ;  the  frail,  yielding  sinner  confident 
of  forgiveness,  whose  very  weakness  of  sex  is  extenua- 
tion of  her  sin.  Her  first  tones  low,  of  holy  reverence, 
as  becomes  one  in  prayer,  drowned  by  the  shouts  of 
Satan  and  the  despairing  shriek  of  Faust ;  gradually  if 
strengthens,  and  when  the  white  light  from  above  is 
revealed  to  her  alone,  her  heaven-inspired  notes  hush, 
the  vitiated  spirits  at  her  side,  who  descend  as  she 
ascends. 

"It  is  a  glimpse  of  the  sublime,"  murmured  Beau- 
passant. 

"It  is  a  sublime  revelation,"  rejoined  Laura  lowly. 

"To  attain  that  divine  height,"  he  continued  mur- 
muringly,  "has  been  given  to  only  three  composers  of 
opera,  and  then  once— briefly— to  each.  Meyerbeer  was 
thus  inspired  for  a  moment  in  the  finale  to  "L'Afri- 
caine,"  Beethoven  in  the  prison  scene  of  "Fidelio"  and 
Gounod  in  what  we  have  just  heard.  Wagner  is  often 
superhuman,  supernatural,  even  superterrestrial,  if  you 
like,  but  never  purely  celestial.  He  is  intense,  he  is  thrill- 
ing, he  holds  you  in  a  vise,  as  it  were,  but  his  genius 
is  that  of  an  overwhelming  power  which  cannot  for 
never  so  brieflly  lift  you  to  the  deities.  The  German, 
Beethoven;  the  Jew,  Meyerbeer  and  our  own  effemin- 
ate Gounod,  though  of  far  less  elemental  power  than 
Wagner,  were  now  and  again  divinely  favored." 

"You  love  music,  don't  you,  Monsieur  Beaupas- 
sant?" 

"As  I  love  all  beautiful  things  that  I  do  not  thor- 
oughly understand;  as  I  love  flowers  without  having 


"FAUST'S"  FINALE.  281 

a  knowledge  of  botany ;  as  I  love  women  without  being 
a  feminist." 

They  had  reached  their  carriage,  but  Laura  through 
the  press  of  the  resplendent  throng  had  not  lost  his 
remark  about  her  sex.  Seated,  she  took  up  his  con- 
fession of  having  merely  an  amateurish  understanding 
of  women.  "You  amaze  me,  monsieur;  none,  I  sup- 
posed, understood  women  as  you  do." 

There  was  a  bare  suspicion  of  jocularity  in  his  ac- 
cents—or was  it  a  lack  of  sincerity— in  replying:  "How 
is  it  possible  to  read  woman  when  she  is  not  clear  to 
herself?  It  is  her  infinite  incomprehensibility  that  ir- 
resistibly draws  man  to  her,  and  the  more  incomprehen- 
sible they  are  to  themselves  and  to  others  the  more 
womanly,  the  more  fascinating.  The  most  complex, 
the  most  womanly  women  are  those  that  are  seemingly 
cool,  self-contained;  ruled,  apparently,  by  reason.  But 
beneath  these  triple  qualities  are  contradictory  char- 
acteristics in  three  secret  compartments:  The  first  is 
feminine  restiveness.  The  second  is  filled  with  a  para- 
dox that  may  be  called  sincere  insincerity,  a  sort  of 
highly  colored  talent  for  doing  wrong  in  good  faith; 
a  trait  you  will  find  in  devout  women  and  women  of 
the  world;  it  is  unconsciously  sophisticated — and  ex- 
tremely dangerous.  The  third  is  replete  with  disquiet- 
ing charms;  exquisite  deceits,  delightful  perfidies  that 
stop  just  this  side  of  a  vocation  for  brilliant  infideli- 
ties—all those  perverse  qualities  that  drive  simple  and 
credulous  lovers  to  suicide  but  which  captivate  exper- 
ienced men." 

Flattered  at  the  subtle  compliments  to  her  sex,  she 
murmured  half-protestingly :  "You  artists  are  all 
woman  worshipers." 

"Artists  woman  worshipers?  You  surprise  me. 
They  are  the  worst,  the  emptiest  of  lovers.  Listen: 
Some  years  ago  I  traveled  through  Sicily,  a  country, 
thank  God,  that  is  not  beset  by  tourists  and  accordingly 
more  interesting  than  any  place  in  Europe.  I  there 
saw  the  statue  of  a  woman.  It  was  not  the  woman 
poetized,  the  woman  idealized,  the  woman  divine  or 
majestic  like  the  Venus  of  Milo;  it  was  the  woman  as 


282  "FAUST'S"  FINALE. 

she  is;  the  woman  we  love,  we  desire;  the  woman  we 
long  to  embrace.  She  was  buxom,  with  a  full,  round 
bosom ;  the  hips  large,  the  limbs  rather  thick ;  a  carnal 
Venus,  the  Venus  of  flesh  and  blood.  She  is  represented 
as  raising  a  drapery  which  conceals  her  womanhood 
and  the  entire  figure  is  molded,  conceived  and  in- 
clined for  this  movement;  every  line,  every  thought  is 
concentrated  upon  it.  The  gesture  is  superb  and  nat- 
ural ;  at  once  bashful  and  unchaste ;  hides  and  reveals ; 
veils  and  unveils;  attracts  and  eludes— seeming  to  de- 
fine completely  woman's  attitude  on  earth.  It  is  a 
miracle.  One  feels  that  it  will  cede  to  the  touch  like 
a  palpitating  body.  The  loins  above  all  are  inexpres- 
sibly fine  and  animated.  It  is  traced  charmingly, 
that  undulous  and  voluptuous  line  of  woman  that 
descends  gracefully  from  the  neck  to  the  heel  and  that 
shows  in  the  contour  of  the  shoulders,  in  the  decres- 
cendo  of  the  thighs  and  in  the  slight  curve  from  the 
delicate  calf  to  the  ankles,  all  of  the  modulations  of 
human  grace." 

''To  me  a  work  of  art  is  not  real  unless  it  is  at 
the  same  time  a  symbol  and  an  exact  expression  of  a 
reality.  The  Venus  of  Sicily  is  a  woman  and  also  a 
symbol  of  sensuousness.  In  looking  at  the  statues  of 
the  Greeks  we  dream;  we  are  confused;  or,  perhaps, 
obsessed  by  illusions,  by  figmental  allurements.  There 
are  women,  I  believe,  who  evoke  that  sort  of  illusion; 
they  seem  to  possess  and  to  express  something  of  the 
intangible  ideal.  Men  pursue  without,  of  course,  ever 
attaining  this  will-o'-the-wisp  ideal,  this  perfect  soul 
which  they  imagine  they  see  in  a  woman's  look— which 
in  fact  is  nothing  but  a  certain  shade  of  the  iris — in 
the  charm  of  a  smile  barely  perceptible  upon  lips 
which  are  as  pure  as  enamel;  in  a  graceful  movement 
which  is  born  of  inadvertence  and  harmony  of  figure. 
Poets — Bourgeon  calls  them  impotent  star  gazers- 
are  always  tormented  by  what  they  call  mystic  love. 
The  natural  exultation  of  a  poetic  mind,  impels  such 
elect  beings  to  conceive  a  sort  of  superhuman  love 
hopelessly  impalpable  and  ecstatic.  And  you  will  notice 
that  poets  are  perhaps  the  only  men  who  have  never 


"FAUST'S"  FINALE.  283 

loved  a  woman,  a  real  woman  of  flesh  and  blood,  with 
all  the  faults  and  qualities  of  a  woman,  with  her  charm- 
ingly limited  rationality,  her  strange  nerves,  her  dis- 
quieting femininity.  But  if  certain  women  can  create 
in  certain  men  such  fine  illusions  others  excite  in  our 
veins  an  impetuous  passion  which  characterized  our 
remote  ancestors.  The  statue  I  referred  to  is  the  per- 
fect image  of  such  a  sane  and  simple  and  powerful 
heauty.  The  head  has  been  lost,  but  that  doesn't  mat- 
ter. Hers  is  a  female  form  that  completely  expresses 
the  poetry  of  passion." 

Laura  thought  it  time  to  discreetly  turn  the  sub- 
ject. She  went  to  the  other  extreme  by  asking:  "Mon- 
sieur Beaupassant,  you  have  often  described  death. 
Do  you  fear  it?" 

"I  fear  and  loath  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES. 

"Paul  Bourgeon"  was  the  name  on  the  card  brought 
up  by  the  bell  boy  directly  after  breakfast.  Laura  was 
surprised  and  flattered  but  rather  regretted  that  Mrs. 
Quincy  was  somewhere  below  roaming  about  the  par- 
lors and  reception  rooms..  She  regretted  it  the  more 
when  Bourgeon  entered,  a  half- familiar,  half -signifi- 
cant look  in  his  eyes  eoncealing  the  effect  of  his  defer- 
ential smile  and  respectful  bow.  Perhaps  it  was  bold 
of  him — he  said— after  so  brief  an  introduction,  but 
Mons.  Beaupassant's  friends  were  his  friends;  they 
had  been  familiar  for  years;  that  is,  as  intimate  as 
it  was  possible  to  be  with  Beaupassant,  with  one  whose 
nature  was  intensely  unresponsive.  Further— would 
madamoiselle  permit  the  confidence  ?— he  was  in  nego- 
tiation with  an  American  editor,  now  in  Paris,  to  go 
to  the  United  States  and  write  his  impressions  of  the 
country.  Perhaps  he  might  presume  to  confer  with 
mademoiselle.  He  was  to  go  to  New  York,  Boston, 
Washington  and  Chicago.  From  these  cities  he  would 
write  a  series  of  articles.  The  compensation  offered 
was  highly  tempting— but— but  the  academy  would 
soon  hold  an  election  and — and— perhaps;  but  that  was 
another  matter.  When  would  madamoiselle  return? 
Perhaps  (this  word  which  recurred  so  frequently  in 
his  speech  had  an  insinuating  and  equivocal  sound 
with  him)  they  could  take  the  same  steamer.  It  would 
afford  him  inexpressible  pleasure  to  travel  with  such 
a  beautiful  woman. 

The  beautiful  woman  was  too  abrupt  a  transition. 
It  denoted  a  carelessness  of  bearing,  a  defect  in  per- 
spective ;  a  want  of  delicacy ;  an  imperfect  understand- 

(284) 


PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  285 

ing  or  a  loose  comprehension  of  foreign  women.  He  had 
judged  Laura  an  actress  who  would  not.  only  be  flat- 
tered but  eager  for  his  attentions.  With  the  instinc- 
tive recoil  which  men's  egoistic  presumption  usually 
inspires  in  fine-nerved  women,  Laura  felt  resentment 
when  she  perceived  the  insidious  surety  and  self-suffi- 
ciency of  his  keen,  observant  eyes. 

"You  take  a  commonplace  view  of  actresses,  Mon- 
sieur Bourgeon." 

The  sudden  accusation  did  not  entirely  dispel  his 
conceited  smirk:  "I  want  to  take  a  correct  view  of 
everybody  and  everything." 

"I've  read  somewhere  that  somebody  called  you 
un  cochon  trist.  Who  said  it?  Augier?" 

The  rush  of  color  on  his  pale  face  betrayed  the 
effect  of  the  thrust,  though  he  responded  spiritedly: 
"Some  one  whom  nature  had  long  deprived  of  viril- 
ity." 

"And  as  a  substitute  gave  a  higher  sense  of 
morality,  especially  of  women.  Monsieur  Bourgeon,  I 
suppose  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  you  from  taking  the 
same  steamer  with  myself  but — " 

There  was  a  knock.  She  relievedly  and  audibly  read 
the  name  on  the  card  which  the  bell  boy  brought :  ' '  Guy 
de  Beaupassanrt  ".  He  may  come  up  immediately." 
Turning  to  Bourgeon:  "You  shall  be  glad  to  meet  him 
here?  You  are  friends,  I  suppose." 

"We  are  old  friends,  fast  friends,  yes."  Yet  he  did 
not  look  as  if  he  were  pleased. 

Beaupassant  was  more  surprised  than  pleased.  They 
shook  hands,  but  Beaupassant  retained  his  astonished 
countenance  until  Borgeon  in  complete  self-command 
bowed  himself  out:  "I  thank  you  for  the  information 
about  your  country.  It  is  very  likely  that  I  shall 
accept  M.  Barnett's  invitation  to  go  there." 

Beaupassant 's  amazed  features  relaxed  as  soon  as 
the  door  closed.  "I've  been  trying  to  persuade  him 
not  to  go  to  America.  His*  forte  is  not  description  or 
analysis  of  masses.  I'm  afraid  he  wall  fail  in  that.  His 
fine  talent  will  not  tolerate  the  study  of  more  than  three 
or  four  characters;  and  there  he  is  a  master.  He  goes 


286  PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEEa 

deeper  than  any  of  us.  Not  an  emotion,  not  a  sensa- 
tion escapes  him.  His  subtlety  is  marvelous.  But  for 
masses,  never." 

Even  while  he  was  speaking  Laura  asked  herself 
again  why  she  felt  wholly  at  ease  with  Beaupassant. 
She  made  a  quick  comparison  between  him  and  the 
man  just  gone.  The  latter  looked  more  metaphysical, 
more  intellectual,  yet  while  freely  communicative  he 
gave  the  impression  of  ever  concealing  his  thoughts- 
according  to  Tallyrand's  formula.  The  former  she 
felt  to  be  open,  direct,  though  reticent  except  to  his 
intimates;  one— in  contradistinction  to  Tallyrand's 
dictum — whose  silence  seemed  to  have  been  given  to 
him  to  reveal  his  thougths. 

He  swerved  from  Bourgeon,  saying  in  English :  ' '  I 
want  to  propose  something." 

"I  didn't  suppose  that  you  would  ever  propose  to 
anybody. ' ' 

"Not  in  your  meaning."  (He  returned  to  French.) 
"There  are  now  three  things  which  I  have  determined 
to  avoid :  Marriage,  the  Academy,  Le  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes— I'll  never  be  a  husband,  an  academician  or 
a  contributor  to  Buloz's  magazine;  for  all  three  mean 
a  repression  of  personality,  a  compromise  with  society, 
if  not  a  ban  upon  the  intellect.  Mais  c'est  autre  chose. 
You  mentioned  Versailles  yesterday.  I  want  to  submit 
an  invitation  to  go  there  this  afternoon  and  then  to 
some  theatre  this  evening.  I  leave  the  choice  of  the 
theatre  to  you." 

"Yes,  with  pleasure.  I  shall  be  delighted.  I  should 
like  to  see  one  of  your  music  halls— Folie  Bergere  for 
instance;  and  then"— she  hesitated  here— "I— I— 
might  after  that,  want  to  see  a  little  of— of  Bohemian 
Paris." 

"With  pleasure,  with  pleasure.  A  glimpse  of  the 
Moulin  Rouge  or  Bullier,  or  both,  and  then  the  Bo- 
hemian cafes.  I  understand.  It  is  quite  the  thing  for 
everybody,  especially  for  French  women  of  society." 

They  had  not  walked  many  steps  from  the  station 
at  Versailles  when  Laura  saw  that  the  place  was 
neither  a  suburb  nor  a  country  town.  There  were  a  few 


PAEIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  287 

shops  and  many  residences ;  the  streets  wide  and  white 
and  lined  on  either  side  with  majestic  trees.  While 
neither  a  suburb  or  a  country  town  it  had  least  of  all 
a  watering-place  or  summer-resort  aspect.  It  was  an 
habitation  apart,  unique,  exclusive,  original,  as  if  not 
only  a  king  but  extraordinary  people  dwelt  there. 
They  met  many  monks,  hatless,  shoeless,  in  rude,  brown 
garbs  with  ropes  around  the  waists.  One— it  presented 
a  memorable  dissimilarity — was  talking  to  a  woman 
modishly  attired,  tall,  svelt  and  beautiful.  He,  gray 
bearded,  heavy;  manifestly  charged  with  religious 
zeal,  though  his  manner  and  voice  were  gentle.  She 
listened  in  an  attitude  of  deep  deference. 
Laura  heard  Beaupassant  say:  "There!" 
Looking  up  she  found  herself  at  a  magnificent  open- 
ing and  in  the  back  ground  a  picture  familiar  from 
girlhood.  She  had  seen  it  in  illustrated  histories, 
framed  upon  the  walls  of  friends'  houses  and  read  of 
it  in  the  lives  of  European  monarchs.  She  recognized 
them  at  once;  they  were  nothing  new  to  her— these 
palaces  of  Versailles.  Entering  the  iron  gateway 
and  approaching  them,  they  became  less  recognizable, 
they  lost  the  pictorial  idea  familiar  to  Laura.  They 
were  oldish;  the  stones  looked  shabby,  the  windows 
neglected;  there  was  more  of  an  air  of  negligence 
than  age  about  the  buildings  so  marvelously  propor- 
tioned, so  perfectly  'harmonious.  Inside,  her  nerves 
told  her  she  was  in  the  hall  of  royalty— of  romantic 
royalty.  She  had  but  to  look  from  one  of  the  many, 
many  apartments  to  the  paths,  the  drives,  the  gardens 
(that  orangery,  how  Watteau-like!)  to  see  that  refined 
sentimentality  had  suggested  it  all.  The  court  yard, 
the  very  nooks  and  intervals  were  the  product  of  a 
mediaeval  tendency  rather  than  the  dictates  of  a  luxur- 
ious king.  Laura  walked  through  the  gallery  of  bat- 
tle paintings  without  emotion.  In  the  hall  of  the  por- 
traits of  rulers  she  was  arrested.  The  Napoleons  in- 
terested her,  and,  strangely  enough,  especially  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Third  Napoleon  with  his  dreamy  eyes  and 
inscrutable  countenance;  yet  more  particulary  the 
portrait  of  the  Due  de  Moray ;  the  face  of  a  real  aris- 


288  PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES. 

tocrat ;  proud,  erect,  the  head  firm,  the  breast  soldierly ; 
the  countenance  light,  highbred,  with  traces  of  polite 
cynicism — the  mouth  that  could  say:  "Establish  an- 
other empire?  Why,  certainly,  I'm  agreeable.  It  will 
not  last  long  but  'twill  be  amusing  while  it  lasts." 

Then  the  hall  of  mirrors— truly  an  idea  of  a  ro- 
mancist  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Ceiling  and  walls  of  mir- 
rors that  had  evaded  time  for  over  two  centuries.  Laura 
noticed  several  Germans,  hats  on,  walking  up  and  down 
with  a  bold  air  and  -aggressive  steps  as  if  their  heels 
were  grinding  the  floor.  Beaupassant,  quiet  to  this 
time,  broke  silence  with:  "Look  at  those  Germans. 
They  always  have  a  conquering  air  in  this  place.  They 
formed  their  empire  here;  their  first  emperor  was 
crowned  here.  They  seem  to  have  a  contempt  for  the 
monarchs  who  have  lived  here.  How  different  their 
manner  at  the  tomb  of  the  first  Napoleon!  There 
they  weep  with  the  deepest  admirer  of  that  Soldier 
of  Fortune.  It  is  an  extraordinary  anomaly  that  they 
should  be  moved  at  the  grave  of  one  who  almost 
destroyed  them." 

They  had  stepped  into  a  west  front  chamber.  For 
a  moment,  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window,  Laura 
wavered  between  the  illusion  of  a  dream  and  a  mistrust 
of  the  sense  of  sight.  A  vision  of  her  subconscious 
longing;  a  scene  that  she  had  seen  in  some  other  ex- 
istence when  she  was  freed  from  the  carking  cares 
of  life.  Like  an  artist's  highest  inspiration;  like  the 
best  moment  in  a  literary  masterpiece;  like  the  soul- 
ful notes  in  music  this  apparition  of  graceful  poplars, 
of  a  romantic  stream  divided  from  an  ideal  lake  by 
an  oval  yard  of  groves;  and  a  softly  undulating 
meadow,  bejeweled  with  luscent  ponds  and  ending  in 
a  vague,  dreamy  distance,  with  an  Italian  fountain 
whose  pearly  sprays  were  kissed  by  sunbeams— this 
Laura  knew  was  a  heaven-born  sight  because,  as  in 
the  rare  moments  of  painting,  of  literature,  of  music, 
it  echoed  something  subliminal  and  responded  to  a 
promise  of  a  beautiful  hereafter. 

Though  often  seen  by  him,  Beaupassant  felt  the 
picture  fully.  "It  is  an  inspiration  of  past  centuries. 


PABIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  289 

No  landscape  gardener— no,  not  even  a  painter  of  to-day 
—could  divine  it.  They  could  only  imitate  it.  Such 
visions  are  a  rebuke  to  our  age.  It  would  seem  that  in 
those  days  man's  soul  turned  toward  art  and  that  a  jeal- 
ous divinity  had  said  to  him:  'I  forbid  you  to  think 
longer  upon  such  things ;  but  if  you  devote  yourself  to 
more  material  things  I  promise  you  that  you  shall  make 
worlds  of  discoveries.'  To-day  it  appears  that  the 
world  is  following  the  suggestion  of  the  jealous  divin- 
ity. The  seductive  and  all-pervading  artistic  emotion  of 
centuries  has  been  extinguished  and  supplanted  by  an 
order  of  mind  that  invents  machines  of  all  kinds ;  amaz- 
ing apparatuses,  mechanisms  complicated  as  living 
bodies;  inventions  that  combine  substances  and  arrive 
at  results  astonishing  as  they  are  admirable.  And  all 
this  to  cater  to  the  physical  necessities  of  man— or  to 
kill  him.  The  ideal  conceptions  of  science — pure  and 
disinterested— those  of  Galileo,  of  Newton,  of  Pascal, 
seem  inaccessible  to  us;  our  imagination  is  attracted 
more  and  more  to  inventions  of  utility.  Now,  does 
it  not  seem  to  you  that  the  genius  of  one  whose  intel- 
lect discovered  in  the  fall  of  an  apple  the  grand 
law  which  rules  the  world  is  born  of  a  germ  more 
noble,  more  divine  than  the  penetrating  intelligence 
of  your  American  inventor,  of  the  miraculous  fabri- 
cator of  electric  bells,  of  the  telegraph,  of  the  telephone, 
of  electric  lights?  Do  you  not  see  in  this  difference 
the  secret  vice  of  modern  man,  the  mark  of  his  inferior- 
ity in  his  apparent  triumph?  I  would  call  it  a  sheer 
defeat  in  his  apparent  triumph.  While  he  is  frankly 
solicitous  of  his  body,  his  soul  has  been  starved." 

Laura  confessed  inattention  by  murmuring,  at 
every  fresh  look,  "How  romantic  it  all  is!  Romance, 
romance,  everywhere!" 

"Let  us  go  below  and  you  shall  see." 
He  beckoned  to  one  of  the  many  cabmen  in  the 
half  moon  court  and  directed:  "Le  petit  Trianon." 
In  two  turns  the  carriage  was  in  a  wood,  wild, 
yet  exclusive,  old  yet  not  unkempt.  The  paths  ap- 
peared not  to  have  been  trodden  for  generations — only 
the  single  roadway  looked  used.  The  trees  wer,e  high, 


290  PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES. 

the  shrubbery  thick,  the  foliage  wildly  luxurious.  And 
over  all  there  was  something  apart  from  other  wood- 
lands Laura  had  seen.  Was  it  age?  Was  it  the  mem- 
ory of  kings  and  queens,  of  princes  and  princesses 
who  had  dwelt  here?  No,  it  was  something  more 
tangible,  yet  less  definite;  something  that  had  been 
stamped  there  when  the  palaces  were  built  and  that 
time  may  never  efface. 

The  carriage's  third  turn  quickened  Laura's  pulse. 
Tfhe  horses  had  left  the  wood  and  dashed  into  a  leafy 
avenue.  Beaupassant  saw  how  Laura  was  inspired 
BO  shouted  to  the  coachman,  "Slower."  The  earth 
of  the  roadway  was  black,  soft,  though  not  deeply 
unyielding,  and  bordered  widely  by  negligent  verdure. 
But  the  trees!  Elms  at  once  towering  and  stately 
and  gracious.  They  were  on  either  side,  equi-distant, 
and  met  in  the  very  center  of  the  road,  forming  a 
romantic  arch  of  nature  the  whole  length  to  the  Tria- 
non. A  sweetly  melancholy  sensation  crept  over  Laura. 
It  recalled  to  her  a  French  phrase  she  had  read  some- 
where :  ' '  The  happy  days  when  I  was  so  melancholy. ' ' 
Her  first  view  of  the  former  homes  of  French  sov- 
ereigns drew  from  her  the  exclamation:  "Oh,  Mon- 
sieur, how  romantically  situated!" 

The  modesty  and  delicacy  of  the  architecture;  its 
whiteness;  its  simplicity.  Apparently  small,  compact, 
it  still  was  royal  and  spacious.  Seen  from  the  exterior, 
Laura  had  never  believed  that  the  rooms  were  so  manv 
and  so  airy.  She  went  from  one  to  another  and  the  uni- 
form harmony  of  the  furniture — in  color  and  propor- 
tions—surprised and  delighted  her  far  more  than  the 
richness  of  the  appointments.  Tested  by  the  appoint- 
ments of  even  tlhe  moderately  rich  in  her  own  land 
this  country  residence  of  the  proudest  princes  of  Europe 
was  a  negligible  affair.  The  coaches  were  gilded  and 
so  were  the  couches;  the  draperies  were  heavy  and 
of  a  peculiarly  reposeful  hue,  but  they  were  not 
numerous.  Laura  stood  long  in  Marie  Antoinette's 
apartment;  that  unhappy  though  vivacious  queen  had 
been  in  Laura's  thought  the  moment  she  alighted 
from  the  carriage.  She  forgot  the  several  Louises  who 


PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  2S1 

had  dwelt  there ;  forgot  Napoleon  and  even  Josephine ; 
went  through  their  apartments  as  an  ordinary  sight- 
seer—but the  daughter  of  Marie  Therese  occupied 
her.  She  could  see  the  romping  yet  romantic  Austrian 
gliding  from  chamber  to  chamber,  from  tree  to  tree, 
from  pond  to  pond.  Though  the  grand  Trianon  was 
designed  long  before  her  time,  both  Trianons  and  Marie 
were  one,  seemed  inseparable  in  an  historical  sense. 
Marie  was  a  charming  commingling  of  vivacity  and 
simplicity  and  romanticism  bestowed  upon  simple  un- 
affected royalty— and  so  were  the  Trianons. 

A  short  drive  brought  Laura  to  the  smallest  of 
the  two  Trianons  and  here  was  romanticism  run  riot 
in  the  pond  fringed  with  willows;  the  cottages  and 
the  marble  arbor  of  love,  named  Temple  de  1 'amour; 
in  the  woods  with  their  hushed,  reposeful  lanes  and 
captivating  perspectives;  in  the  statues— how  singu- 
larly lovely  the  combination  of  white  marble  amid  the 
arborous  green— allegorical  of  love;  in  the  regal  quiet- 
ude whose  impassiveness  was  deepened  by  memories 
of  the  chivalrous  gallantries  of  the  amatory  adventures' 
that  had  taken  place  here. 

There  were  no  tourists,  no  excursionists  here,  for 
which  Laura  was  thankful,  and  she  expressed  her  grat- 
itude. 

"Yes,  it  is  well;  it  were  still  better  if  the  crowd 
did  not  invade  the  grand  Trianon  and  the  palaces  of 
Versailles.  One's  artistic  sense  revolts  at  the  sight 
of  the  mob  at  these  places  fit  only  for  an  old  aritoc- 
racy.  Think  of  it:  the  terribly  common  throng,  with 
its  common  birth,  its  common  appearance,  its  com- 
mon manner  and  its  worse  than  common  ideal,  swag- 
gering about  in  the  woods,  the  parks,  the  gardens, 
the  lanes,  the  halls,  the  very  chambers  of  them  who 
were  the  exquisities  in  deportment  and  breeding  of 
their  day.  It  is  an  infamous  desecration.  Even  Na- 
poleon (the  conqueror  not  of  mere  man  but  of  nations) 
was  a  garish  incongruity  at  Versailles.  Though  he 
had  the  perception  of  youth,  the  intuition  of  woman 
and  the  nerves  of  an  artist,  he  knew  that  he  had  too 
much  of  the  pleb,  of  the  democrat,  to  be  at  home 


292  PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

in  the  palaces  of  the  Valois;  so  he  spent  but  little 
time  there.  His  nephew,  Louis,  had  too,  a  fine  sense 
of  conformity.  He  and  his  retinue  of  political  ad- 
venturers seldom  came  to  Varsailles  and  never  to 
the  Trianons.  But  the  average  passer-by  (Ce  monsieur 
qui  passe)  coming  here  in  droves,  swaggering  impu- 
dently, is  like  spitting  in  the  face  of  the  gloriously 
exclusive  and  elegant  past.  You  may  think  me  hyper- 
sensitive, but— 

"Then  perhaps  you  may  not  wish  to  make  the 
rounds  this  evening?"  She  said  it  half  banteringly. 

"That  is  a  different  matter,  for  in  the  halls  (bas- 
tringues)  and  in  the  students'  quarters  there  are  no 
afflicting  discrepencies  between  people  and  environ- 
ment. ' ' 

Nevertheless,  Laura  noticed  that  'his  contentment 
was  feigned  when  they  entered  the  theatre  of  the  Gay 
Shepherdess.  The  beginning  of  a  disdainful  smile 
shadowed  itself  upon  his  mouth  as  they  came  to  the 
vast  court  leading  to  the  smoky  auditorium.  Laura 
was  too  nonplused  by  her  surroundings  to  comment 
upon  it,  still  less  to  suggest  retreat. 

"Suppose  we  stop  a  bit  here  before  taking  our  seats 
in  the  theatre,  so  as  to  have  done  with  the  whole  matter 
as  soon  as  possible?" 

They  were  soon  in  the  current  of  the  promenade, 
pressed,  pushed,  jostled.  For  a  few  moments  Laura 
could  see  nothing  but  a  sea  of  hats  of  all  kinds  and 
of  both  genders.  Getting  to  one  side  of  the  hall  she 
saw  that  the  crowd  was  making  a  circuit  of  the  place 
around  the  row  of  fountains.  On  either  side  of  them 
were  marble  tables,  where  were  seated  men  young 
and  old,  and  women  young  or  striving  to  give  them- 
selves a  youthful  appearance.  All  had  glasses  before 
them;  glasses  large  and  small,  filled  with  liquids  of 
various  hues,  green  predominating.  At  first  sight,  the 
women  looked  handsome,  but  of  a  boldly  brazen,  sens- 
uous beauty.  The  men  were  of  all  races,  even  Arabs 
and  Madagascar  negroes,  and  these  were  in  company 
of  the  youngest  and  most  prepossessing  of  the  women. 


PABIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  293 

Laura  was  not  sure  of  her  eyes  and  could  not  contain 
her  astonishment: 

"Monsieur  Beaupassant,  are  those  girls  associating 
with  the  blacks?" 

"Certainly.  Certainly;  that's  a  sign  of  progressive 
civilization,  you  know." 

She  withdrew  attention  from  them  and  watched 
the  women  in  the  slowly  moving  procession;  or,  more 
exactly,  the  women  in  and  out  of  the  procession.  They 
walked  in  pairs  amid  this  mob  of  men,  crossing  the 
line  with  ease,  gliding  between  elbows,  between  breasts, 
between  backs,  entirely  at  home,  like  fish  in  familiar 
waters.  Although  they  had  a  supercilious  air,  as 
though  they  were  indifferent  to  everything,  including 
man,  they  would  stop  now  and  then  and  solicit  some  one 
to  stand  treat  and  when  refused  would  turn  their  backs 
angrily  and  ejaculate  a  word  or  two  that  Laura  did 
not  understand.  At  that  moment  their  flamboyant 
beauty — the  large  hips,  the  swelling  bosoms,  the  enor- 
mous black  eyes,  the  huge,  red  lips — took  on  some- 
thing of  bestiality.  Several  were  ranged  near  a  bar 
at  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  where  the  attendants 
were  maids  with  artificially  blond  hair — to  give  them 
an  English  look— which  contrasted  grotesquely  with 
their  dark,  flashing  eyes.  The  maids  were  busy  dis- 
pensing cigars  and  drinks,  the  while  entertaining  a 
running  conversation  with  the  cocottes  in  front  of 
them ;  and  their  ever  alert  and  declamatory  movements 
were  reflected  in  the  high  and  broad  mirror  back  of 
them. 

As  the  orchestra  intoned  a  Metra  march,  Beaupas- 
sant turned  to  the  salle.  "We've  missed  the  first  part, 
but  it  doesn't  matter." 

A  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  veiled  the  stage  and  the 
other  side  of  the  theatre  like  a  thin  fog;  it  was  con- 
stantly replenished  by  the  white-blue  emanations  of 
the  cigars  and  cigarettes  smoked  by  the  spectators, 
including  the  women,  and  the  moving  haze  accumulated 
at  the  ceiling,  beneath  the  big  dome  around  the  su- 
perb chandeliers  that  hung  just  above  the  top  gallery, 
and  formed  strange  figures  there. 


294  PABIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

Laura  and  her  escort  were  enclosed  in  one  of  the 
several  rows  of  open  boxes  that  formed  a  semi-circle 
between  the  orchestra  and  dress  circle ;  the  loges  were 
decorated  in  red  and  contained  four  chairs  of  the 
same  color,  chairs  so  closely  placed  that  one  could 
barely  pass  between  them. 

The  raised  curtain  disclosed  three  trapeze  perform- 
ers. In  the  next  turn  were  four  acrobats  who  went 
through  the  usual  evolutions ;  following  this  a  presti- 
digitator, who  did  nothing  that  Laura  had  not  seen 
before.  Finally,  when  a  man  and  a  troupe  of  trick 
dogs  came  on  Laura  asked:  "Is  there  no  singing,  no 
acting,  no  dialogue  here?  Do  they  get  up  these  enter- 
tainments for  people  who  are  deaf  or  hard  of  hear- 
ing?" 

"The  programmes  are  arranged  for  the  benfit  of 
strangers  who  know  little  or  no  French,  and  for  peo- 
ple who  are  content  with  seeing  something  going  on. 
Look  about  you;  in  front  are  peddlers  and  grocers 
with  their  beefy  wives,  a  bunch  of  stupid  heads  that 
wateh  the  stage  with  their  mouths  agape.  In  the  boxes, 
nearly  all  strangers,  from  every  quarter  of  the  earth 
— Americans,  Brazilians,  Englishmen,  Japs,  Russians, 
South  and  North  Africans,  some  with,  some  without 
women  of  the  town.  Back  of  you,  an  extraordinary 
mixture;  the  riff-raff  of  almost  every  profession;  fel- 
lows who  have  failed  through  corruption  or  a  total 
want  of  ability.  These  are  few,  however;  the  crooks 
predominate.  The  other  sex  is  all  of  one  character, 
as  you  have  noticed,  I  suppose.  The  same  women,  in 
the  same  number,  come  here  night  after  night  for  years 
except  when  they  are  in  the  hospital. 

"I  see  an  annoucement  at  the  end  of  the  programme 
!Le  Cygne  Dormant.'  Is  it  a  play?" 

"Not  at  all.  Simply  a  thing  for  the  eyes.  There 
isn't  a  word  spoken.  A  liberal  display  of  heavy  female 
anatomy.  You  can  see  such  things  much  better  done 
at  the  Marigny  in  the  Champs  Elysee." 

His  inflection  was  a  hint  that  he  had  had  quite 
enough. 


PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES.  295 

"Then  I  had  rather— some  time— see  the  thing  done 
at  the  Marigny." 

Before  stepping  into  the  carriage  she  looked  him 
full  in  the  eyes  and  asked : 

"Monsieur,  what  is  it  in  me  that  really  interests 
you  ?  Why  do  you  expose  yourself  to  ennui  by  escort- 
ing me  to  places  that  are  tiresome  to  you?" 

For  the  first  time  he  betrayed  a  shade  of  embarrass- 
ment, as  though  he  had  been  discovered  in  something 
he  was  sure  had  been  perfectly  concealed.  He  flushed ; 
his  reply  was  slow  in  coming. 

"Well,  (eh  bien)  I— I— find  you  are  interesting 
because— because  you  are  different  from  our  French- 
women—because— you— Miss  Darnby,  I'll  be  frank 
with  you— later.  Before  you  return  to  your  America 
I'll  give  you  another  reason." 

Ah,  then  there  was  another  reason ! 

The  unstated  cause— the  unknown,  the  mysterious 
—provoked  Laura  to  such  absorbing  speculation  that 
she  did  not  notice  the  course  and  the  slowness  of  the 
carriage.  Not  until  a  stop  was  made  was  she  aroused. 
A  long,  grimy,  sinister-looking  building;  at  the  height 
of  one's  head  a  blind  aperture  in  the  door.  Beaupas- 
sant  knocked  loudly.  Waiting  two  minutes  he  knocked 
again.  At  the  end  of  three  minutes  a  board  in  the  blind 
aperture  was  withdrawn  and  in  the  opening  a  scurvy 
head. 

"What  do  you  want?"  was  asked  brashly. 

"Aristide,  if  you  please,  Monsieur"— Beaupassant 
was  very  deferential— purposely  so,  perhaps,  in  con- 
trast with  the  fellow's  grossness.  Monsieur  took 
his  time  in  opening  the  door  and  when  he  dad  so  it 
was  with  insulting  reluctance.  For  a  moment  they 
were  in  utter  darkness,  as  though  in  an  antilair  to 
a  thieves'  den.  A  second  door  was  opened;  the  light 
blinded  them  for  a  moment.  Four  steps  down  and 
Laura  found  herself  in  what  appeared  to  her  a  topsy- 
turvy inn.  Bizarre  objects  hung  against  the  walls. 
A  sanded  floor  and  a  long  table.  At  the  sides,  against 
the  walls,  desk-like  tables.  The  ceiling  of  rafters.  At 
the  back,  from  high  to  low,  a  series  of  shelves,  filled 


296  PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

with  bottles,  decanters,  glasses.  The  light  was  high 
and  glaring,  notwithstanding  the  curls  of  smoke  puffed 
by  men  whose  long,  black,  unkempt  hair  stuck  out 
in  rebellious  masses  from  beneath  slouched  hats.  All 
the  tables  were  occupied  by  these  individuals;  all  had 
absinthe  tumblers  in  front  of  them,  a  few  of  which 
were  full,  some  half-filled,  many  empty.  There  were 
no  women  present,  but  Laura's  presence  elicited  no 
attention  whatever— no  attention  was  paid  to  her  or 
to  Beaupassant.  They  took  two  unoccupied  seats  in 
a  corner,  and  once  seated  a  waiter  grudgingly  came 
up  and  asked  surlily:  "What  do  you  want?" 

"Absinthe  for  two." 

Turning  to  Laura:  "Of  course  you  will  not  drink 
the  stuff ;  neither  shall  I.  But  we  must  do  what  others 
do  in  these  places— these  poets'  dens.  They  all  write 
verses." 

But  why  is  it  so  difficult  to  enter?  Why  is  the 
waiter  rude?  And  are  you  unknown  to  these— these 
literary  men?" 

"The  difficulty  of  entering  is  apparent  only,  the 
rudeness  simulated;  they  are  the  trade-mark  of  the 
place;  all  these  dens  have  something  to  distinguish 
or  to  mark  them.  Insolence  is  Aristide's  trade-mark. 
I  am  not  known  to  the  people  here;  even  if  I  were, 
they  would  despise  me,  for  I  deserted  poetry  for  prose. 
A  prosaist,  in  the  view  of  Aristide's  admirers  is  a 
menial  of  letters  to  whom  any  sort  of  recognition 
would  be  traitorous.  How  do  they  live  ?  Heaven  only 
knows.  Aristide,  of  course,  makes  a  comfortable 
income  here.  Verlaine  receives  a  good  price  for  his 
lines.  For  the  rest,  existence  is  a  mystery.  But  any 
one  of  them  who  is  applauded  by  the  habitues  is 
sure  to  have  his  rhymes  appear  in  Gil  Bias  with  an 
illustration  by  Steinlen,  and  the  glory  of  such  recog- 
nition suffices  to  keep  the  glorified  in  purple  clouds  for 
months.  It's  a  vagabond  life  that  ends— one  in  thous- 
ends — in  permanent  fame,  in — many,  many  times — at 
the  morgue,  or — what  is  worse  than  the  morgue — 
a  small,  mean,  stultifying  clerkship.  My  God!  When 
I  think  of  the  souls  that  'have  been  extinguished 


PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  297 

behind  counters  and  bookkeepers'  desks;  in  nar- 
row, stinting  marriages;  I  know  something  of  office 
prisons.  I  once  was  an  office  clerk,  as  I  have  re- 
marked, and  I  shudder  when  I  recall  those  days. 
I  had  rather  be  a  rude  miner,  digging  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth;  <a  farmer  toiling  in  the  open  fields;  a  com- 
mon sailor;  even  a  common  soldier— much  as  I  hate 
the  horrible  trade  of  war— than  hold  a  clerkship,  the 
shabbiest,  the  meanest,  the  most  ignominious,  the 
most  humiliating  position  imaginable  for  a  manly  spirit. 
But  look;  Aristide  is  mounting  the  table." 

A  square,  muscular  figure  set  off  by  a  big,  shaggy 
head,  whose  face  was  an  anomaly  to  all  his  other 
physical  aspects :  clear  cut  as  a  cameo  and  of  a  healthy 
brown.  But  there  was  something  untamed,  bestial 
about  the  eyes,  and  this  something  came  out  in  the 
tone  of  the  voice  and  the  words  uttered.  The  song 
was  perfect  in  construction ;  the  harmony  of  the  rhyme 
was  delightful;  but  it  was  wholly  sullied  by  its  base 
idea.  While  the  frenziedly  noisy  applause  was  deafen- 
ing the  ear,  the  door  opened  for  a  limping  being,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  what  had  been  thought  an  attend- 
ant had  not  both  been  grimily  and  indigently  clothed. 
One  glance  at  the  second— he  who  offered  his  arm- 
told  him  to  be  a  mendicant,  or  a  peddler  taken  with 
a  canine  devotion  for  the  other,  who  as  he  limped 
past  Laura,  all  but  startled  her  into  a  cry.  He  had 
removed  a  dirty,  holely  hat,  disclosing  a  huge,  lumpy 
cranium,  bald  to  the  ears  and  almost  to  the  neck, 
which,  like  his  countenance,  was  blotchy— the  blotches 
that  announce  a  venereal  disease.  The  body  was  quite 
bent  and  he  presented  an  ensemble  so  appallingly 
depraved,  so  befouled  with  degradation,  so  denatural- 
ized with  hideous  appetites,  that  a  gorilla  would  seem 
an  angel  of  purity  beside  him;  a  physiognomy  that, 
without  actually  staring  at  (him,  Laura  had  not  supposed 
possible  in  man.  He  could  not  be  described  as  an 
animal,  for  no  beast  is  capable  of  expressing  such  pol- 
lution and  of  exhibiting  such  vice;  face  and  form 
had  a  meaning  which  humanity  alone,  dragged  down 
to  its  deepest  corruption,  can  convey. 


298  PABIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

' '  Merciful  heaven !    What— who  is  that  ? ' ' 

Beaupassant  had  eyed  him  steadily,  without  emo- 
tion, as  one  familiar  with  the  sight. 

"Paul  Venlaine,  if  not  our  greatest,  surely  our 
most  genuine  poet.  A  genius  who  wallows  in  filth 
and  criminality.  Frangois  Villon  was  a  saint  com- 
pared to  that  creature.  He  hasn't  the  remotest  con- 
ception of  morality — he's  a  moral  imbecile.  There  are 
only  four  places  in  the  world  for  him:  the  brothel 
and  the  hospital;  the  prison  and  these  drinkeries." 

His  entrance  was  a  signal  for  -a  hush  of  rever- 
ence. Many  half  rose  from  their  seats  and  bowed. 
Only  to  one — to  Aristide — did  he  extend  his  hand. 
Place  was  made  for  him  at  the  proprietor's  table.  A 
few  instants  after  he  was  seated  a  tall  glass  of  absinthe 
was  in  his  hand. 

Beaupassant  anticipating  further  questions  con- 
tinued, his  eyes  on  Verlaine:  "In  all  things  men  of 
genius  are  intense  and  they  are  rewarded  or  punished 
beyond  other  men.  Nature  had  never  stamped  vice 
upon  the  form  and  features  of  an  ordinary  man  as 
she  has  on  Verlaine.  She  has  made  him  vice  incar- 
nate. His  appetites  are  animalistic,  his  passions  mon- 
strous. He  is  taken  to  the  hospital  eve>ry  few  months 
and  he  escapes  when  only  half  cured.  If  he  conde- 
scends to  recite  any  of  his  verses  we  had  better  leave 
— for  the  sake  of  your  ears." 

He  had  scarce  uttered  the  admonition  when  Ver- 
laine, his  absinthe  swallowed,  limped  toward  the  cen- 
ter table  to  the  clapping  of  hands.  Laura  came  to 
her  feet  instantly  and  made  for  the  door.  The  surly 
porter  leered  lewdly  in  withdrawing  the  bolt. 

Where  next  1  Laura  suggested  a  studio  or  two.  She 
had  never  been  in  one.  Ah,  they  were  very  much  alike 
up  here,  on  Montmatre,  Beaupassant  observed.  The 
exceptions  were  Mke  white  ravens— heard  of  in  seam- 
stresses romances  but  never  seen.  The  rule  suffered 
unceasingly  not  for  the  poorest  comforts  of  life  but 
for  its  necessities;  ambitions  without  energy;  hope- 
ful without  effort;  trying  to  be  cheerful  under  the 
direst  pressure  of  need.  There  was  nothing  pictur- 


PAKIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  299 

esque  about  studios  up  here.  The  majority  of  them 
were  on  the  Cinquieme,  around  sharp  corners,  and 
barely  accessible.  Once  on  the  final  floor,  after  stum- 
bling along  a  narrow  hall  as  black  as  Erebus  and 
floundering  through  a  curtained  doorway,  one  comes 
abruptly  on  a  door,  falls  headlong  over  a  little  rattan 
stool  or  an  easel  or  a  box  of  paints  and  is  picked  up 
in  a  room  eight  metres  in  width  by  ten  in  length  with 
a  narrow  skylight  above.  It  is  romantic— that  sort 
of  life— for  a  year  or  so  when  one  is  eighteen  or  twenty 
and  has  a  superabundance  of  health,  but  the  more  part 
end  in  the  manner  of  Aristide's  habitues.  You  cannot 
live  in  semi-starvation  amid  evil  odors  and  retain  your 
illusions  for  long. 

"But  stay,  there  is  a  studio  further  up,  on  the 
very  heights  that  is  worth  while.  And  this  is  Thurs- 
day, Madeline's  evening.  It  may  be  interesting  enough 
to  endure  for  an  hour.  Let  us  go  there." 

He  was  about  to  signal  the  hackman  when  Laura 
stayed  his  hand  with  a  request ;  she  would  like  to  walk 
there,  for  that  would  bring  her  in  more  personal  con- 
tact with  Bohemian  Paris  than  a  closed  oairriage 
affords.  Yes,  certainly,  but  the  Bohemian  quarters 
were  not  all  Bohemian,  mademoiselle  would  soon  see. 
The  cab  was  sent  on  ahead  and  Laura  took  the  author's 
arm.  No,  it  was  not  all  Bohemian;  some  of  it  was 
pious;  some  of  it  work-a-day,  some  thievish,  criminal, 
some  the  haunts  of  the  ultimate  dregs  of  prostitution. 
They  met  priests  and  nuns ;  artisans— men,  women  and 
children  prematurely  aged  by  over-work  in  miasmic 
conditions— met  thieves  who  slunked  and  other  crim- 
inals who  glared  aggressively ;  met  cocottes  young  and 
old  who  gave  men  speculative  stares;  who  accosted 
youths  openly,  who  walked  langourously  or  stood  at 
the  corners  of  the  narrow,  winding  streets,  who,  when 
they  were  successful  in  arresting  passers-by,  solicited 
them  avidly.  Then  there  were  lorettes  hanging  on 
students'  arms,  the  generality  laughing  impudently. 
Now  and  again  a  young  laborer  with  his  sweetheart 
would  pass,  he  happy  in  his  possession,  she  bareheaded, 
a  red  rose  in  her  hair,  gratified  to  be  possessed.  They 


300  PABIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

passed  churches,  monasteries,  convents,  where  God  was 
worshiped  by  the  lowly ;  passed  dens  where  future  mas- 
ter pieces  could  be  bought  for  a  franc ;  dens  where  one 's 
throat  would  be  cut  for  a  sou ;  passed  shops,  some  bright, 
others  dingy;  passed  dancing  halls  and  concert  halls, 
all  small  and  nearly  all  disreputable.  It  was  a  kaleido- 
scope of  wealth  and  penury,  vice  and  virtue,  piety  and 
sin,  of  industry  and  of  crime. 

' '  Montmartre  is  a  world  /in  itself, ' '  murmured  Laura. 

"It  is,"  he  confirmed,  and  a  most  trying  crucible 
for  artistic  talent.  They  who  have  gone  through  it 
successfully  are  at  Fontainebleau,  at  Suresnes,  or  St. 
Cloud  or  Poissy  living  like  as  Meissonier  lived.  There 
that  is  the  one  exception  I  have  in  mind." 

He  pointed  to  a  somber  structure  near  the  summit 
whose  gloom  was  deepened  by  two  illuminated  win- 
dows at  the  top.  The  windows  were  open,  whence 
issued  the  harmony  of  piano  and  violin. 

"Somerive  is  there.  I  know  his  bow,"  observed 
Beaupassant. 

The  concierge,  in  recognizing  Beaupassant,  doffed 
his  hat.  Four  flights  and  they  were  at  the  destined 
landing.  They  waited  until  the  composition  was  fin- 
ished, then  Beaupassant  knocked.  A  hostess  of  slight 
aristocratic  form  and  refinement  of  feature  welcomed 
Beaupassant.  At  the  introduction  she  scanned  Laura 
critically  and  the  quick  appraisement  gratified  her  so 
that  she  threw  out  both  hands,  exclaiming  in  English, 
"Welcome!  Welcome!" 

She  ushered  them  into  an  apartment  at  once  domes- 
tic and  bohemian,  cozy  and  spacious,  artistic  and  home- 
like, frugal  and  prodigal.  It  was  the  Bohemianism  of 
a  cultured  woman.  Contrasts  met  the  eye  everywhere, 
from  the  large  room  itself— its  size  was  anti-Bohemian 
— to  the  satin-covered  stool.  Near  the  repulsive  little 
stove  with  an  interminable  pipe  and  hissing  kettle 
was  a  Flemish  cupboard  heavily  carved,  replete  with 
delicate  crockery. 

The  long  divan,  a  contrivance  of  various  packing 
boxes,  was  covered  with  rich  rugs.  At  the  back,  on 
a  line  with  a  long  pine  table,  a  piano.  Scattered  about, 


PAKIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES.  301 

chairs  of  various  forms  and  values.  The  walls  were 
cracked,  but  they  were  pure,  and  their  decorations  of 
garlands  and  miscellaneous  ornaments  were  in  fault- 
less taste.  Woman's  taste  was  everywhere. 

There  were  six  in  the  room  and  they  were  quite 
all  of  distinguished  appearance.  One  Laura  knew  at 
once.  The  heavy  mane  of  hair  in  which  gray  and  black 
struggled  for  domination  in  color;  the  artist's  beard; 
the  absolutely  black  and  resplendent  eyes ;  the  slender, 
somewhat  inclined  frame— she  perceived  Alphonse 
Bidet  before  he  was  presented;  and  when  Beaupas- 
sant  supplemented  her  name  with  "une  actrice  Ameri- 
caine"  Bidet's  woman  companion  greeted  Laura  with 
a  Gallic  fervor  that  dissolved  the  rigidly  high-bred  and 
hauteur-like  countenance  into  womanly  warmth  and 
girlish  simplicity.  Then  Mme.  Bidet— it  was  she- 
would  have  it  that  she  herself  complete  the  presenta- 
tion of  Laura  to  the  company.  With  an  arm  encircling 
Laura's  waist  she  murmured  low  and  affectionately, 
"Monsieur  de  Somerive,"  indicating  an  old,  white-haired 
man,  holding  a  violin  caressingly.  There  was  a  note  of 
high  esteem  when  she  pronounced  "Monsieur  Godin," 
sculptor,  and  "Monsieur  Beringer,"  musician;  the  one 
sanguinous,  belligerent,  heavy  of  form  and  hard  of 
feature;  the  other  waspish,  attenuated;  feminine 
hands  and  voice;  his  small  face  all  but  buried  by  an 
enormous  shock  of  coarse,  Saxon  hair.  The  shade  of  ap- 
proval and  reproval  in  Mme.  Bidet's  voice  was  dex- 
terously blended  in  the  naming  of  Monsieur  Romaine ; 
the  handsome  painter  with  the  rakish  air  stopped  puff- 
ing a  thick  cigarette  long  enough  to  bow  admiringly. 

"And  now  we  must  be  quiet  for  a  few  minutes  and 
listen  to  a  Bach  air." 

Monsieur.de  Somerive  had  turned  to  Madeleine,  who 
was  at  the  piano.  A  preparatory  hush,  and  the  beauti- 
ful woman  and  gentle  old  man,  their  countenances  up- 
lifted as  if  to  read  the  score  from  on  high,  affused 
themselves  and  their  listeners  with  the  seraphic  com- 
position which,  ignoring  the  precedent  of  prefectoriness, 
at  once  loosened  its  divine  notes  in  a  celestial  shower. 
Oh,  how  Laura  drank  of  the  spirit  of  that  beatific 


302  PAKIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

sound!  It  banished  the  serpent  with  which  care  and 
disillusioning  experience  had  bound  her  heart.  She 
was  lifted  into  the  empyrean,  where  the  soul  freed 
from  its  earthly  prison  finds  the  longed-for  perfec- 
tions that  the  world  will  ever  deny.  Madeleine  and 
Somerive  had  ceased  playing,  but  the  charm  of  the 
melodic  inspiration  still  held  all  in  spell.  Bidet  on 
the  divan  with  his  hands  clasping  his  knees,  had  a 
far-away  look;  almost  stern.  His  wife,  facing  him, 
seemed  in  a  mute  prayer.  The  sculptor,  on  a  chair 
against  the  wall,  was  lost  in  infinite  meditation.  The 
musician,  seated,  was  bent  forward,  has  head  buried 
in  his  hands,  as  if  weeping.  The  painter's  demeanor 
was  transformed.  The  rakishness  had  given  way  to 
an  attitude  of  awe.  He  stood  against  the  table,  his 
head  deeply  inclined.  The  composer's  dissolving 
strain  through  every  vein  had  passed  into  the  painter's 
heart  and  brain.  Beaupassant's  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  floor.  He  acknowledged  he  was  moved  by  break- 
ing silence  with — 

"It  is  touching,  this  morceau  by  Bach." 

"And  now,"  he  continued,  raising  his  voice  to  the 
hostess  and  the  old  violinist  who  were  waiting  as  if 
to  be  prompted  to  the  next  number,  "permit  me  to  sug- 
gest a  song  by  Beringer  here,  his  '1 'Amour'  for  exam- 
ple." 

In  a  round,  mellow  contralto,  Madeleine  intoned 
an  amorous  air,  which  changed  the  aspect  of  the 
auditors  into  a  glow  of  sensuous  warmth;  it  conjured 
up  a  warm,  moonlight  night;  a  chateau  with  illumin- 
ated windows  before  which  flitted  encircled  couples 
waltzing  to  voluptuous  music  that  was  wafted  down 
to  the  river's  bank;  where  mated  youth,  seated  beneath 
trees,  with  eyes  upon  the  moonlight  water,  listened 
to  the  ingratiating  orchestra  and  to  the  response  by  a 
nightingale.  The  instrumental  part  of  the  amatory 
measure  was  nothing ;  a  casual  accompaniment  contrib- 
utory to  a  better  hearing  of  the  musician  in  the  scene. 

They  all  congratulated  Beringer,  Bidet  enthusias- 
tically, for  the  hirsute  novelist,  Laura  had  noticed, 
was  something  of  a  melomaniac.  His  extremely  dark 


PAEIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES.  303 

eyes,  still  under  the  spell  of  languorous  strains,  seemed 
to  swim  in  sentimentality.  Beside  him  Mme.  Bidet 
was  calmly  contained,  sweetly  dignified.  Of  the  two 
one  had  thought  him  the  woman.  He  turned  to  Laura 
and  spoke  of  music  in  America.  The  Americas,  he 
thought,  had  given  the  world  many  valuable  execut- 
ants, more  especially  the  United  States,  but  they  had 
given  only  one  creator  of  music— the  composer  of  "II 
Guarany, ' '  Gomes,  a  Brazilian.  There  was  some  prom- 
ise in  a  youth  of  Laura's  country,  Nevins  by  name, 
he  believed.  He  hoped  the  young  man's  environments 
would  not  sterilize  his  talent.  Still,  far  be  it  from  him 
to  criticize  unmusical  atmospheres.  Many  of  his 
friends  had  no  ears  for  the  art.  Flaubert  had  had 
no  interest  in  it;  it  was  lost  on  the  Goncourts.  Aloza 
was  stone  deaf  to  music;  Beaupassant  was  suscepti- 
ble to  it,  but  only  to  the  sensuous.  Tourgenieff  alone 
among  them  all  had  had  a  true  appreciation  of  the 
divine  art.  And  he  continued  to  expatiate  knowingly 
and  interestingly  on  music  and  musicians  while  the 
others  talked  of  one  thing  and  another. 

The  platitude  about  Nevins  and  his  environment 
touched  Laura  disagreeably.  She  felt  as  others  have 
felt;  no  matter  how  censorious  one  may  be  about 
one's  country  when  at  home,  it  is  a  keen  thrust  when 
abroad  to  have  it  critisized  by  a  stranger.  She  made 
the  observation  to  Beaupassant  when  they  were  again 
in  the  street. 

"I  am  no  judge  of  that,  for  I  have  always  held 
that  patriotism  in  this  age  is  an  anomaly.  I  have  heard 
France  criticised  in  foreign  countries  with  no  emo- 
tion or  resentment  whatever.  You  will  pardon  me 
for  expressing  the  view,  but  I  cannot  argue  away 
the  thought  that  patriotism  is  a  savage  thought  handed 
down  to  us  by  barbarians  who  fought  one  another 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  their  noses  were  not  all 
alike." 

They  walked  in  silence  until  they  turned  into  a 
broad,  sloping  street,  which  at  some  distance  from 
them  was  garishly  illuminated.  Beaupassant  stopped 
as  if  something  had  suddenly  occurred  to  him.  "My 


304  PAEIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

dear  Miss  Darnby,  I  want  to  make  a  suggestion.  I 
suggest  that  we  do  not  go  to  the  Moulin  Noir.  It  is 
not  because  I  think  you  would  find  it  immoral,  but 
that  it  is  uninteresting  and,  worse  still,  very  vulgar. 
In  the  center  there  is  a  large  platform  for  professional 
dancers,  male  and  female.  On  the  sides  drinking  tables 
infested  by  dancers  and  women,  whose  business  it  is 
to  make  men  consume  as  much  liquor  as  they  can  induce 
them  to  buy.  In  a  few  side  alleys— so-called  groves— 
you  may  chance  upon  a  disgusting  scene  or  two  or  may 
have  your  pocket  picked.  It  is  all  very  dull  and  hope- 
lessly cheap ;  a  place  for  provincial  people  and  for  for- 
eigners who  suppose  that  Parisian  manners  and  char- 
acteristics are  exemplified  there." 

"Manners  and  characteristics?  I  did  not  know  that 
there  were  people  so  ignorant  as  to  expect  such  a 
thing." 

"It  is  so,  nevertheless.  The  only  interesting  thing 
about  the  place  is  the  stranger  and  his  delusion.  In 
the  Moulin  Noir  the  man  from  the  interior  meets 
the  man  from  abroad.  The  fellow  from  Bezrere  who 
has  had  trouble  with  his  wife  meets  the  Norwegian 
nobleman,  Marquis  de  Gondremarck.  A  bourgeois 
family  from  Bavaria  rubs  elbows  in  the  gravelled  mall 
with  a  group  of  Japanese;  you  may  see  a  Russian 
prince  by  the  side  of  a  hardware  merchant  from 
Liseaux;  see  Slovaks,  Servians,  Poles,  Portuguese, 
Spanish  and  English— anybody  save  Parisians.  If  by 
chance  one  of  us  strays  into  the  place,  he  dashes  out 
directly  he  has  gone  around  that  circle  where  it  is 
pretended  the  dancing  is  not  professional.  A  mall 
of  artificial  scenery;  palms  of  zinc;  a  gaping  crowd 
from  all  quarters  of  the  globe;  professional  dancers; 
mechanical  grottoes;  an  old  sink  transformed  into  a 
fountain;  an  old,  second  cook  disguised  as  a  fortune 
teller ;  and,  on  gala  nights,  a  couple  of  English  boxers, 
who  break  each  other's  noses.  It  is  a  scheme  espe- 
cially arranged  to  lure  as  many  francs  as  possible 
from  the  pockets  of  foreigners  who  are  made  to  believe 
they  are  seeing  a  fine  specimen  of  Parisian  gaiety 
and  wickedness.  For  a  franc  the  foreigner  can  see 


PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  305 

six  salaried  high  kickers,  who  are  supposed  to  repre- 
sent Parisian  folly ;  a  dozen  dissolute  women  who  pass 
for  Parisian  grace  and  fascination;  in  the  side  alleys 
a  disgusting  scene  or  two  and  everywhere  a  lot  of 
persons  who  are  yawning  hard  enough  to  dislocate 
their  jaws ;  Brazilians  who  come  -via  Bordeaux ;  Ameri- 
cans landed  at  Havre;  Germans  from  the  Northern 
railway  depot;  Austrians  brought  here  by  the  East- 
ern line;  Turks  who  come  up  the  Danube;  Spaniards 
from  Old  Castile,  and  here  and  there  a  low-paid  clerk 
who  mounted  an  omnibus  near  some  obscure  street  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  river.  All  these  people  eye  one 
another  with  curiosity ;  every  foreigner  thinks  his  neigh- 
bor a  Parisian  and  for  that  reason,  you  see,  the  Moulin 
Noir  is  so  thoroughly  Parisian.  There  really  is  nothing 
less  Parisian  than  these  places.  Paris  is  synonymous 
with  grace,  wit,  taste;  tihere  is  nothing  of  this  at  the 
Moulin  Noir ;  grace  is  represented  by  a  dozen  hardened 
prostitutes  who  prowl  around  the  orchestra;  by  a  few 
young  dancers  who  change  their  gowns  for  dancing  pur- 
poses at  the  office  just  as  an  actress  "makes  up"  in  her 
dressing  room  before  going  on;  wit  by  a  lot  of  pick- 
pockets ;  while  taste  is  shown  in  the  zinc  palms  and  the 
Chinese  lanterns.  The  foreigner  who  arrives  in  Paris 
hurriedly  takes  a  bath,  jumps  into  a  cab  and  gets  out 
at  the  Moulin  Noir,  where  he  thinks  he  will  get  a 
large  sample  of  Paris  in  a  night.  The  three  men 
wearing  white  ties  at  the  box  office  offer  the  first 
example  of  Parisian  distinction ;  the  leafy  mall,  painted 
on  canvas,  Parisian  art;  the  orchestra  playing  a  silly 
composition  is  Parisian  music;  a  third  rate  cocotte, 
who  lifts  up  her  skirts,  is  representative  of  the  Parisian 
dance;  the  young  man  who  kicks  up  his  legs  in  uni- 
son with  the  female  dancer's  vulgar  audacities  and 
to  whom  the  management  has  entrusted  a  dress  suit, 
ready  made,  impersonates  the  youth  of  Paris.  To  the 
average  foreigner,  places  like  the  Moulin  Noir  are  sym- 
bolic of  Paris  life.  Oftener  than  not  he  goes  home  in  a 
week  positively  convinced  that  for  a  few  francs  he 
has  seen  Paris  thoroughly.  If  he  is  a  writer  the 
Moulin  Noir  experience  warrants  him  to  write  two 


306  PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES. 

or  three  volumes  on  Parisian  morals  and  the  press  of 
his  country  in  reviewing  his  book  declares  that  he 
has  made  a  profound  study  of  French  morality— or 
immorality." 

"I  certainly  shall  defer  to  your  suggestion— and 
I  thank  you  for  making  it.  Now  let  me  make  one: 
let  us  return  to  the  hotel  at  once  and  on  the  way  back 
tell  me  about  the  Bidets." 

"Everybody  adores  Mme.  Bidet,"  'he  answered 
after  directing  the  driver, — "but  the  feeling  is  not  so 
unanimous  regarding  Bidet.  He  is  highly  complex, 
even  for  an  author.  Flaubert  once  called  him,  in  con- 
fidential undertone,  a  feline  fellow.  You  will  overlook 
the  comparison,  I  know;  he  is  feminine  in  his  envy. 
The  enormous  success  of  Aloza's  'Anna'  threw  him 
into  an  envious  rage  for  a  week,  though  Aloza  is  his 
best  friend.  Tourgenieff,  who  is  deeply  penetrating, 
distrusts  him  and  at  bottom  dislikes  him.  Edmond  de 
Goncourt  says  he  lacks  singleness  of  purpose.  He  is 
very  vain,  the  vanity  of  a  Southerner.  I  am  prejudiced 
against  men  who  are  dosed  with  personal  sentimen- 
tality, and  Bidet  has  all  the  faults  and  virtues  that 
come  from  that  trait.  He  has  an  extremely  nervous 
organization,  has  all  the  nerves  and  sensibilities  and 
susceptibilities  of  a  woman — and  also  her  contradic- 
tions and  amazing  mutabilities.  He  likes  Germans 
because  they  are  strong,  heavy  and  victorious— a 
woman's  secret  adoration  for  her  opposite.  Finally 
he  has  the  delicate  perfidy  and  ingratitude  of  a  woman. 
He  will  not  hesitate  to  put  a  sacred  secret  imparted 
by  a  friend  into  his  books.  His  'Mogul'  is  a  perfidious 
volume  filled  with  his  ingratitude  and  violations  of  con- 
fidences. His  greatest  benefactors,  from  the  Due  de 
Morny  down,  are  traduced  and  vilified.  He  does  not 
do  these  things  wantonly.  He  does  them  uncon- 
sciously; or,  better,  according  to  his  nature;  the  un- 
scrupulousness  of  a  writer  who  thinks  all  material 
(friend  or  foe)  is  his  prey.  The  real  man  in  the  Bidet 
menage  is  Mme.  Bidet." 

The  open  carriage  moved  slowly.  There  were  in- 
numerable vehicles  aihead,  bunched  closely,  compelling 


PAEIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTBES.  307 

slackened  pace.  On  Laura's  side  was  a  long  drink- 
ery,  glittering  with  crude  lights,  and  beneath  the  gar- 
ish illuminations,  at  small  round,  marble-top  tables, 
a  mass  of  miscellaneous  and  for  the  most  part  pusillani- 
mous humanity.  There  were  young  men  and  old.  And 
the  young  were  as  bald  as  the  old.  It  was  Bohemian- 
ism  of  a  more  energetic  character  than  that  at  Aristides ; 
an  open  air  Bohemianism  against  the  cave  kind  at  the 
other  place.  The  air  of  abandon  was  the  same  in  both. 
But  what  quickly  arrested  Laura's  attention  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  rest  were  the  women.  In  the  brief 
glances  which  the  slowly  moving  cab  permitted  she 
noticed  the  types  were  several;  many  were  young  and 
these  all  singularly  attractive;  the  forms  svelt,  the 
faces  of  beautiful  strength.  The  partial  or  wholly 
faded  predominated,  however,  and  they  imparted  a 
momentary  wave  of  depression  to  Laura;  they  were 
so  palpably  rouged,  their  struggle  with  encroaching 
age  so  futile  and  frantic. 

"What  place  is  this?" 

"Brasserie  des  Hirondelles,  a  rendezvous  for  artists, 
students  and  failures— and  their  mistresses.  You  are 
interested  in  the  women,  I  see.  All  models,  actual  or 
ancient.  Their  heads  are  as  striking  as  their  sobriquets, 
though  their  piquant  appellations  insists  upon  nobility. 
They  all  are  de  somebody  or  countess  so  and  so.  Heaven 
only  knows  where  they  come  from.  A  few,  originally, 
had  aspirations ;  they  wished  to  be  artists  or  actresses ; 
they  failed  for  want  of  talent  or  perseverance  or  moral- 
ity. But  the  mass  is  made  up  of  cocottes.  They  pass 
from  hand  to  hand  and  from  each  ' '  friend ' '  they  absorb 
a  little  artistic  erudition.  They  talk  well;  they  have 
opinions— second  hand— about  everything.  They  are 
realists  and  impressionists  and  romanticists,  catholic 
and  protestants,  Jewesses  and  atheists  by  turns— ac- 
cording to  the  lover  of  the  week  or  day.  They  all  smoke 
as  well  as  drink.  It's  bad  for  them  and  worse  for  their 
men.  How  many  promising  fellows  have  I  known  who 
began  coming  here  once  a  week !  then  twice ;  then  every 
night  and  finally  made  it  their  home— a  home  of  guz- 
zled beer  and  sipped  absinthe ;  of  hurrying  waiters ;  of 


308  PAEIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

heated  discussions ;  no,  not  discussions,  but  of  vocifera- 
tions; shouts,  cries;  gesticulating  arms,  and  shaking 
manes— you  notice  the  men  are  all  long-haired,  when 
they  have  any.  They  come  here  to  intoxicate  themselves 
with  wild  ideas  as  well  as  with  brutal  beverages.  They 
form  collaborations,  outline  masterpieces  of  art  and 
literature— which,  are  not  started  even — hypnotize 
themselves  and  forget  that  they  are  growing  older  and 
the  brasserie  odious.  They  end  by  finding  it  impossi- 
ble to  do  anything.  Bohemianism  in  Murger's  sense 
and  as  depicted  by  him  is  a  lie,  the  most  dangerous 
falsehood  ever  perpetrated  in  our  literature;  it  is  a 
delusion  that  has  given  young  men  a  basis  of  quicksand 
for  a  beginning;  it  has  vitiated  the  will,  sapped  the 
energy  and  poisoned  the  blood  and  mind  of  myriads 
of  geniuses." 

They  had  now  reached  the  boulevards,  which  were 
ablaze.  The  shops  cast  floods  of  brilliant  light  half 
across  the  streets,  and  encircled  the  crowd  in  a  golden 
haze.  The  illuminated  Kiosques,  extending  in  two  in- 
terminable rows  and  resembling  enormous  Chinese  lan- 
terns, gave  to  the  street  the  fantastic  and  childlike 
aspect  of  an  Oriental  fete.  The  flood  of  light,  the 
thousands  of  luminous  points  shining  through  the 
trees;  the  flitting  carriage  lights  that  seemed  like 
myriads  of  fire  flies;  the  purple  lamps  of  the  omni- 
buses, the  hundred  thousand  illuminated  windows, 
these  theatrical  splendors  produced  an  indescribable 
impression  on  Laura.  It  seemed  like  an  immense  dis- 
play of  fireworks,  which  if  suddenly  extinguished 
would  leave  the  city  buried  in  smoke. 

Beaupassant  said  nothing  until  they  reached  the 
Madeleine,  when  his  words  told  that  the  trend  of  his 
thought  had  veered  completely. 

"I'm  thinking  what  must  be  the  social  freedom  of 
women  in  your  country.  I  have  always  known  that 
young  men  and  women,  especially  when  engaged,  go 
about  everywhere  unescorted.  And  it  seems  that  mar- 
ried women  have  the  same  privilege ;  that  is,  they  are 
permitted  to  be  accompanied  by  their  male  friends,  in 
the  absence  of  their  husbands.  It  seems  singular  to 


PAEIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  309 

the  French  mind.  Here  such  a  thing  would  be  seriously 
compromising." 

"Well,  it  is  quite  regular  with  us  provided  the  hus- 
band approves  of  it." 

"And  are  there  no  accidents?"  This  with  derisive 
glitter  in  the  eye. 

"Not  as  many  as  with  you." 

"And  it  is  known— your  husband  and  friends  know 
—that  I  am  your  friend,  philosopher  and  guide,  as  your 
Dr.  Johnson  expresses  it?" 

"My  husband  knows.    I  have  written  him." 

"And  your  friends  will  know  through  your  friend, 
the  American  journalist  here." 

Laura  had  quite  forgotten  Woodlock.  What  had  he 
cabled  his  paper?  What  written?  She  realized  that 
to  have  been  taken  up  by  Beaupassant  and  introduced 
to  the  artistic  circles  of  Paris  implied  at  home  an  en- 
hancement of  personal  prestige  and  professional  repu- 
tation—if tactfully  presented  to  American  readers. 
Otherwise — they  were  near  the  hotel  and  Beaupassant 
took  her  hand  with  "allow  me."  He  kissed  it— for  the 
first  time  since  they  had  met. 

Laura  was  sufficiently  versed  in  French  customs  to 
know  that  the  kissing  of  the  hand  was  a  convention; 
but  being  belated  on  Beaupassant 's  part  and  coming 
with  the  discussion  of  American  manners,  it  provoked 
that  malaise  when  women  are  uncertain  whether  they 
should  feel  insulted,  flattered  or  complimented.  The 
ruffled  sensation  vanished  as  Mrs.  Quincy — who  had 
waited  for  Laura — called  attention  to  a  package  of 
letters  on  the  table.  The  subtle  perplexities  of  the 
higher  world — the  world  of  letters,  of  elegance,  of 
higher  thought — disappeared  in  the  ruder  cares  of  do- 
mestic intimacies,  in  the  homely  anxieties  of  her  own 
country.  The  short  stay  in  Paris  had  made  her  quite 
oblivious  to  Ross,  her  parents,  her  American  intimatea 
and  to  Gars — her  profession. 

There  was  a.  letter  from  Gars;  this  reminded  her 
that  she  was  an  actress  aspiring  to  the  best  which  her 
profession  affords  in  America.  There  were  several 
from  Ross— written  one  each  day  from  the  moment  of 


310  PARIS-ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTEES. 

her  departure  to  the  sailing  of  the  next  steamer;  they 
produced  mingling  emotions  of  an  antithetical  char- 
acter. Did  she  regret  her  marriage?  Should  she  be 
grateful?  Knowing  the  intellectual  world  as  she  now 
knew  it  had  she  married  Ross— Ross  entirely  practical 
and  mentally  quite  elemental?  And  one  from  her 
mother— from  that  primitive  form  of  life  in  Missouri. 
For  a  moment  her  retrospective  vision  was  profoundly 
tragic,  embracing  the  tragedy  of  the  soul  at  war  with 
conditions  and  the  more  awful  spectacle  of  human 
character,  capable  of  good,  of  brilliancy  even,  defeated 
by  the  ox-like  if  not  ignoble  association  and  in  so 
many  instances  finally  abandoned  to  its  baser  instincts. 
And  the  more  sensitized  the  man  or  woman  who  suc- 
sumbs  at  last  to  the  cerements  of  miserable  environ- 
ments, the  deeper  is  his  or  her  debasement.  After 
these  thoughts  had  passed  over  her  brain  she  rejoiced 
that  she  had  married  Ross.  In  her  heart  she  thanked 
him,  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  surrounding  her  with 
that  which  she  now  knew  was  best  for  the  more 
part  of  women— intelligent  luxury  and  refinement. 
The  thankfulness,  the  gratitude  melted  momentarily  as 
Darnby  leaped  to  her  mind;  an  incandescent  hate,  an 
inflamed  resentment  possessed  her.  Then  Protony;  he 
was  quite  objective  now.  He  evoked  pity,  admiration 
and  resentment  too  fugitive  and  diaphanous  for  defini- 
tion ;  but  through  all  there  was  a  well-defined  contempt 
which  every  womanly  woman  feels  for  men  who  are 
evasive,  hesitative,  compliant,  deferential,  melancholy 
and  completely  ineffective. 

From  members  of  her  own  profession— from  the 
actors  and  actresses  to  whom  she  had  been  "My  dear" 
— not  a  line.  They  were  an  insincere  and  a  self-cen- 
tered lot,  these  butterflies. 

The  letters  read,  she  sat  near  the  window  pensive. 
It  was  a  strange  contrast;  here  was  glorious  Paris, 
with  its  diadem,  the  Champs  Elysee  (symbolic  of  a 
realized  dream)  in  front  of  her;  there,  on  a  table,  were 
communications  which  were  witnesses  of  ties  with  a 
mean  past  and  perhaps  an  indifferent  future.  Oh,  would 
that  Paris  and  the  ideals  and  enjoyments  which  it  had 


PARIS- ITS  VISIONS  AND  SPECTRES.  311 

inspired  could  be  perpetuated!  But  she  was  sure  of 
a  few  days  more ;  she  would  live  those  days  to  the  very 
seconds.  And,  meanwhile,  no  mare  thoughts  of  the 
past  or  of  a  future  whose  only  inviting  glance  was 
an  ambition  that  had  been  discouraged  by  the  impossi- 
bility of  attaining  the  perfection  she  had  seen  in  French 
theatres.  She  bade  Mrs.  Quincy  to  cast  the  letters  in 
a  trunk— she  would  sever  the  bonds  for  a  few  days  at 
least— and  then  retired,  her  mind,  just  before  slumber 
supervened,  in  a  confusion  of  cloudy  casuistry  with 
regard  to  Beaupassant  and  hazy  anticipations  of  a  visit 
to  Aloza  at  Medan. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  SOULS  OF  PAEIS. 

For  a  while  the  route  followed  the  Seine,  where  the 
river  is  dotted  with  charming  islands ;  then  swerves  to 
cross  the  pretty  village  of  Villaines;  there  redescends 
gently,  and  finally  penetrates  the  country  where  lives 
the  author  with  the  penetrating  look. 

An  ancient  and  unique  church,  flanked  by  two  tur- 
rets, first  appeared  to  the  left.  A  few  steps  further  and 
a  passing  peasant  pointed  out  the  door  of  the  novelist. 
Before  ringing,  Beaupassant  suggested  that  Laura  look 
at  the  residence.  A  large  building,  square  and  high. 
It  appeared  to  have  given  birth— after  the  manner  of 
the  fable  of  the  mountain  and  the  mouse — to  a  little 
house,  very  white,  couched  at  the  foot  of  the  big  edifice. 
The  small  one,  Beaupassant  explained,  was  the  original 
home,  built  by  a  former  proprietor.  The  other  had 
been  constructed  by  Aloza. 

They  rang.  A  massive  dog— a  cross  breed  of  St. 
Bernard  and  Newfoundland— barked  so  ferociously  that 
Laura  stepped  back.  But  a  servant  ran  forward  and 
before  opening  directed,  "Be  quiet,  Bertrand".  She 
greeted  Beaupassant  with  the  gentle  respect  and  polite 
familiarity  that  Laura  had  observed  to  be  the  rule 
among  French  domestics.  Beaupassant  had  merely  to 
say  "M'lle  Darnby"  for  Laura  to  be  greeted  with  a 
sweet  smile  and  a  respectful  bow.  They  followed  her 
from  the  old  to  the  new  building,  where  they  ascended 
a  pair  of  stairs  to  the  second  floor.  In  a  few  moments 
in  following  the  servant,  Laura,  who  had  not  thought 
of  it  before,  asked  herself  what  manner  of  man  she 
expected  to  see.  She  had  seen  a  bust  picture  of  him 
in  magazines  and  newspapers,  but  every  cut  had  been 

(812) 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  313 

different  from  the  other ;  they  were  confusing  and  made 
for  no  adequate  conception  of  the  writer  whose  sonor- 
ous name  had  already  at  that  time  resounded  in  all 
quarters  of  the  world  to  the  invincible  hate  of  some, 
the  indignation  real  or  feigned  of  others,  to  the  envy 
of  certain  fellow  writers,  the  deep  respect  of  an  army 
of  readers  and  to  the  admiration  of  hosts  of  people. 
In  her  fancy  she  saw  a  bearded  giant,  of  terrifying 
aspect,  with  a  resounding  voice  far  from  agreeable. 

The  door  opened,  disclosing  an  immense  apartment 
which  was  lighted  by  Venetian  windows  facing  a 
sweeping  landscape.  Ancient  tapestries  covered  the 
walls;  to  the  left,  a  monumental  fireplace,  flanked  by 
staituettes.  A  big  table  crowded  with  books,  manu- 
scripts and  newspapers  occupied,  or,  rather  monopol- 
ized the  middle  of  the  room  in  such  a  way  as  to 
attract  attention  to  the  momentary  exclusion  of  the 
man  upon  an  oriental  divan  where  at  least  twenty 
men  could  have  slept. 

As  they  entered  the  man  sat  tailor  wise.  A  book 
with  the  leaves  thumbed  lay  at  his  side.  In  his  right 
hand  he  fumbled  an  ivory  paper  knife  whose  tip  he 
had  contemplated  with  one  eye,  in  closing  the  other, 
with  the  obstinate  squint  of  a  myope.  He  slid  down 
directly  he  recognized  Beaupassant,  advanced  quickly 
and  shook  hands  heartily.  He  bowed  rather  formally 
to  Laura,  and  observed,  again  facing  Beaupassant : 
' '  You  the  first,  and  on  time  ?  You  who  are  always  late 
when  you  come  >at  all?  Ah,  perhaps  madamoiselle  is 
to  be  credited  with  your  promptness." 

Whilst  he  was  speaking  Laura  examined  him:  of 
medium  height ;  of  the  comfortable  -circumference  of  a 
contented  bourgeois.  His  head,  very  like  those  that 
are  found  in  the  Italian  portraits  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
turn,  without  being  handsome  in  the  plastic  sense,  pre- 
sented a  cogent  example  of  strength  and  intelligence. 
Thick  and  short  hair  stood  out  upon  a  highly  developed 
brow.  His  straight  nose  was  as  if  suddenly  arrested 
in  its  growth  by  the  stroke  of  a  chisel  just  above  the 
upper  lip,  which  was  covered  by  a  black,  heavy  mus- 
tache. The  entire  chin  was  of  a  beard  clipped  very 


314  THE  SOULS  OF  PAEIS. 

close.  The  black  eyes  shot  out  as  if  they  were  about 
to  discharge  a  volley  of  ironical  and  penetrating  am- 
munition. Laura  felt  that  back  of  these  orbs  was 
a  highly  active  mind  that  understood  men,  was  not 
misled  by  their  words,  interpreted  their  gestures,  de- 
nuded their  souls.  This  round  and  strong  head  was  in 
consonance  with  the  short  and  resonant  name  of  three 
bounding  syllables  and  three  ringing  vowels. 

A  woman  entered.  She  was  introduced  to  Laura  as 
Mrs.  Aloza.  She  was  tall  as  Aloza  was  short,  thin  as 
he  was  stout,  characterless  in  mien  and  features  as  he 
was  vivid  with  strength  and  intellectual  vivacity;  a 
faithful  mate  and  no  more— one  who  looked  to  the 
creature  comforts  of  her  forceful  husband.  Then  en- 
tered the  Bidets,  both  of  whom  greeted  Laura  warmly. 
Mme.  Bidet  exclaiming:  "Ah,  there  is  our  brilliant 
brunnette!"  Upon  their  heels  came  two  men  obviously 
painters  and  clearly  brothers.  They  were  presented 
as  the  Messieurs  Guillemet.  Another  artist  whom 
Aloza  fairly  embraced  and  whom  he  introduced  in  a 
paternal  way  followed.  He  was  Monsieur  Monet;  a 
strong  face,  hard  and  determined.  Then  came  the 
M.  M.  Hansmann,  Henrique,  Creux,  Robin  and  Alexique. 
The  first  made  a  hybrid  impression  on  Laura;  it  was 
a  mixture  of  repulsion  and  attraction.  He  might  have 
been  anything  from  a  clerk  to  an  abbe.  His  eyes  were 
restive  and  changed  constantly  in  expression.  He  had 
a  hungry  look  which  was  animalistic  and  philosoph- 
ically wistful  by  turns.  Henrique  and  Robin  were 
Frenchmen  as  they  are  met  on  the  street — ces  mes- 
sieurs qui  passe.  Creux  had  the  air  of  a  soured  hermit, 
Alexique  that  of  a  despondent  watch  dog. 

Mme.  Aloza  suggested  that  they  go  into  the  dining 
room.  Aloza  interposed:  "Let  us  wait.  Perhaps  the 
ancient  will  come-  after  all." 

The  ancient  did  come  presently.  He  stooped  de- 
cidedly, walked  undecidedly  like  an  invalid  soldier. 
The  simile  was  emphasized  by  the  white  military  mus- 
tache, the  florid  face.  His  reception  was  that  of  a 
retired  general  by  young  soldiers;  enthusiasm  blended 
with  deference.  Beaupassant  made  Laura  known  to 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  315 

him  as  "An  American  actress  distinguished."  He  to 
her  as  Emile  dc  Boncourse. 

The  ancient's  arrival  was  a  signal  to  repair  to  the 
dining  room.  As  was  the  library  and  other  apart- 
ments through  which  they  passed,  the  hall  in  which 
they  were  to  have  dinner  was  decidedly  unrealistic 
and  pronouncedly  romantic.  From  it  Laura  had  a  full 
view  of  the  colossal  ribbon  called  the  Seine. 

Aloza  took  one  end  of  the  oblong  table,  Bon- 
course  the  other.  Laura  was  placed  near  Boncourse 's 
end,  between  him  and  Beaupassant  and  directly  oppo- 
site Hanseman.  Henri  Rochefort  was  the  subject  of 
comment  as  they  took  their  sats.  To-day's  article  in 
L'lntransigeant  Boncourse  vowed  would  again  send 
him  into  exile.  The  attack  on  the  ministry  was  the 
most  vicious  that  had  appeared  since  the  commune. 
At  heart  Rochefort  was  a  communist ;  he — 

' '  Pardon, ' '  Bidet  interrupted.  ' '  At  heart  Rochefort 
is  a  dead  literary  ambition,  the  victim  of  a  perverted 
talent.  As  a  young  man  Rochefort  wished  to  be  an 
author.  He  wrote  farces  which  were  very  mediocre,  dra- 
matic critiques  which  were  virile  and  original.  In  the 
same  office  with  him  was  a  violently  opinionated  youth, 
the  butt  of  the  staff's  sarcasm,  who  was  continually 
denouncing  men  high  in  office.  One  day  Rochefort, 
in  a  spirit  of  jest,  made  a  transcript  of  these  ravings 
and  sent  it  to  an  obscure  weekly.  To  the  astonish- 
ment of  Rochefort  and  the  editor,  the  disconnected 
vaporings  were  the  talk  of  the  boulevard  for  a  whole 
evening.  The  editor  demanded  m6re  of  the  same 
nature  and  from  that  day  to  this  Rochefort  has  been 
writing  the  inanities  which  were  begun  in  a  joke.  At 
first,  Rochefort  threw  off  the  copy  as  though  it  were 
a  bit  of  humorous  hack  work ;  then  it  became  a  habit ; 
now  it  is  a  vice.  At  the  beginning  they  were  facetious 
and  well  written;  to-day  the  paragraphs  are  the  inco- 
herencies  of  a  madman.  Rochefort  was  a  disappointed 
author  without  convictions,  political  or  otherwise. 
No  matter  what  the  government — monarchical,  Re- 
publican, Communistic — he  would  revile  it  in  a  style 
thafc  had  changed  from  caustic  to  foul. ' ' 


316  THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Rochefort?"  was  asked  of 
Boncourse. 

"I  cannot  be  exact  until  I  have  finished  with  this 
most  excellent  dinner.  It  is  after  dinner  that  I  get 
my  ideas.  With  me  a  full  stomach  is  synonymous 
with  as  head  full  of  thoughts.  I  am  like  those  plants 
whose  leaves  at  once  exude  the  water  poured  at  the 
base." 

This  was  a  hint  to  lower  the  tone  of  talk  to  brief 
commonplaces  until  the  finger  bowls  were  presented, 
for  Boncourse,  Laura  perceived,  was  the  nestor  of 
these  gatherings.  She  paid  little  heed  to  the  loose, 
choppy  remarks  passed  to  and  fro,  but  she  felt  a 
sensation  of  being  in  an  atmosphere  of  mental  exhil- 
eration.  The  air  was  psychologically  electric.  She 
now  felt  herself  visibly  and  acutely  alive.  She  found 
all  her  faculties  keenly  alert;  found  herself  thinking 
faster  and  clearer  but  without  fatigue.  It  was  as  if 
respiration  were  effortless  and  energy  unconscious  of 
exertion.  Some  strong  force,  universal  in  its  operation, 
had  manifestly  so  exalted  the  spirit  of  the  Parisians, 
centered  and  focused  in  its  representation  of  art,  as  to 
produce  on  every  hand  that  phenomenon  which  some 
one  tried  to  characterize  in  declaring  that  "the  last  per- 
fection of  our  qualities  is  when  their  activity,  without 
ceasing  to  be  sure  and  earnest,  becomes  a  sport." 

"The  only  sane  quality  possessed  of  Rochefort," 
began  Boncourse  in  an  oracular  strain,  as  he  put  down 
his  serviette,  "is  his  innate  dislike  of  the  Jews.  That 
trait  is  sincere.  He  recognizes  that  they  are  the  evil 
genius  of  humanity  in  that  they  are  making  money 
the  supreme  test  of  worldly  power  and  influence. ' ' 

Aloza's  head  shot  up  as  if  touched  by  an  electric 
shock.  His  look  of  indignant  astonishment  denoted 
a  total  disappearance  of  deference  to  his  white-haired 
friend.  "Boncourse,  I  always  knew  you  had  a  vague 
prejudice  against  tne  Bourse  and  commercialism,  but  I 
am  amazed  to  find  that  you  have  been  infected  by  the 
stupid  attempt  of  a  few  discredited  politicians  to  make 
a  little  cheap  capital  by  resurrecting  a  superstition 
as  shameful  as  it  is  barbarous." 


THE  SOULS  OF  PAEIS.  317 

Aloza's  vehemence  evidently  was  new  to  Boncourse, 
who,  unaccustomed  to  such  an  emphatic  rebuttal, 
was  dislodged  from  complacency:  "Why,  Aloza,  you 
surprise  me.  Since  when  have  you  become  a  cham- 
pion of  money  lenders,  you  who  only  recently  have 
emerged  from  the  abject  misery  which  the  lack  of 
money  breeds?" 

"The  Jews  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  poverty. 
I  was  poor  because  I  was  refused  a  hearing,  and  the 
very  class  that  is  endorsing  this  puerile  agitation  of 
discredited  politicians— the  class  that  stands  for  every 
reactionary  movement,  for  progressive  adversity — did 
more  to  retard  my  recognition  than  the  critics  who 
affected  to  despise  my  work.  What,  after  all,  is  there 
against  the  Jews?  What  have  they  done?  Some  peo- 
ple say  they  find  Jews  insufferable,  that  they  cannot 
shake  hands  with  them  without  a  feeling  of  repug- 
nance. That  I  suppose,  is  a  physical  antipathy,  the 
repulsion  of  one  race  for  another,  the  aversion  of  the 
Caucasian  for  the  Mongolian,  the  copper-colored  bar- 
barian for  the  black  heathen.  I  do  not  know  if  in 
this  repugnance  there  does  not  enter  the  old  hate  for 
the  Jew  who  is  ignorantly  accused  of  having  crucified 
the  Christ.  However,  physical  repulsion  is  a  good  rea- 
son, indeed  the  only  reason,  for  there  is  nothing  to 
be  said  to  people  who  tell  you  'I  think  they  are  hateful 
because  I  find  them  hateful ;  because  the  very  sight  of 
their  nose  exasperates  me;  because  my  flesh  revolts 
at  finding  them  different  and  contrary  ,to  myself.'  But 
this  hostility  of  one  race  for  another  will  never  do.  We 
might  as  well  go  back  to  the  depths  of  the  forest, 
begin  again  the  barbarous  warfare  of  tribe  against 
tribe  and  devour  one  another  because  we  haven't  got 
the  same  cry  or  because  the  hairs  on  our  bodies  are 
not  of  the  same  color.  The  essential  meaning  of  civil- 
ization is  the  extinction  of  the  savage  instinct.  In  the 
course  of  centuries  the  lesson  which  the  history  of 
humanity  teaches  is  that  of  mutual  tolerance ;  so  obvi- 
ous is  this  that  every  man  of  progress  hopes  for  a  uni- 
versal fraternity  ultimately.  Therefore,  to  bite  and  to 
hate  in  our  time  because  one  man's  head  is  not  shaped 


318  THE  SOULS  OF  PAB1S. 

exactly  like  another's  is  the  beginning  of  a  monstrous 
madness.  The  Jews,  I  know  are  accused  of  being  a 
nation  within  a  nation,  of  living  apart,  of  being,  as  it 
were,  an  international  sect,  without  a  country,  capable 
some  day  if  sufficiently  strong  and  successful  of  cap- 
turing the  world.  The  Jews  in  marrying  among  them- 
selves are  really  a  large  family,  with  ties  tightly  drawn 
amid  the  widening  bands  of  modern  times ;  they  sustain 
one  another,  encourage  each  other,  and  display  in 
their  isolation  an  irresistible  force  and  a  spirit  of 
gradual  conquest  that  is  extraordinary;  above  all, 
they  are  a  practical  and  shrewd  race ;  they  are  acquisi- 
tive; they  have  an  especial  talent  for  business,  which 
in  less  than  a  century  has  put  in  their  hands  enormous 
fortunes  and  which  appears  to  assure  them  the  kingdom 
at  a  time  when  money  shall  be  king.  All  this  is  true,  but 
who  is  responsible  ?  The  Jews  as  they  exist  to-day  are  as 
we  have  made  them :  the  result  of  our  eighteen  hundred 
years  of  idiotic  persecution.  They  have  been  herded 
in  infamous  ghetti,  like  lepers,  so  that  it  is  not  at  all 
astonishing  that  they  have  lived  apart,  have  preserved 
their  traditions,  have  tightened  family  ties,  have  re- 
mained like  the  conquered  among  the  conquerors. 
They  have  been  beaten,  abused,  have  been  subjected 
to  all  manner  of  judicial  outrages  and  physical  vio- 
lences; it  is  not  surprising,  then  that  they  harbor, 
though  unconsciously,  the  hope  of  revenge,  of  being 
irresistible,  of  becoming  in  turn,  conquerors.  Above 
all,  the  world  disdainfully  left  the  domain  of  money 
to  them,  forcing  them  to  be  traffickers  and  usurers; 
it  is  not  surprising  then  that  when  the  reign  of  brutal 
might  had  given  way  to  the  reign  of  intelligence  and 
labor  the  Jews  were  found  to  be  masters  of  money, 
their  brains  developed,  exercised  by  centuries  of  ex- 
perience and  thoroughly  equipped  for  the  strife  in 
the  new  social  war." 

"And  now  terrified  by  the  result  of  blind  perse- 
cution, frightened  at  beholding  what  the  fanaticism 
of  the  middle  ages  has  made  of  the  Jews,  you  can  con- 
ceive of  nothing  better  than  to  turn  back  a  thousand 
years,  resume  the  persecutions,  preach  anew  the  holy 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  319 

war  so  that  the  Jews  may  be  hounded,  despoiled, 
herded  together  as  before;  filled  with  the  old  hatred 
and  treated  like  slaves.  This  certainly  is  a  very  fine 
conception  of  civilization,  a  lovely  view  of  social  order. 
Seriously,  is  it  possible  that  you  with  your  countless 
millions  of  Gentiles  call  for  the  police  to  protect  you 
against  a  handful  of  Jews?  I  really  cannot  compli- 
ment you  upon  your  bravery.  The  conditions  of  the 
battle  are  very  fair.  Wihy  not  be  as  intelligent  and 
as  clever  as  the  Jews  in  the  commercial  field.  While 
I  was  around  the  Stock  Exchange  gathering  material 
for  my  novel,  'L 'Argent,'  a  Gentile  banker  in  speak- 
ing of  the  Jews  said  to  me:  'They  are  too  smart  for 
us;  they  overreach  us  in  everything.'  If  that  were 
so  it  would  be  very  humiliating.  But  why  should  it 
be  true?  To  be  gifted  is  well  enough,  but  work  and 
fair  intelligence  are  better  than  mere  gifts.  The  field 
is  free,  and  though  the  Jews  have  had  several  cen- 
turies of  training  in  money  matters  there  is  nothing  to 
do  but  to  emulate  them,  to  adopt  their  methods,  beat 
them  with  their  own  weapons.  That  is  the  only  way. 
To  abuse  them  is  worse  than  futile— it  is  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  your  own  weakness.  Vanquish  them  by 
being  their  superior  in  business.  Nothing  is  more 
simple.  It  is  the  law  of  life.  What  proud  satisfac- 
tion it  must  be  to  them  to  hear  your  cries  of  distress! 
Think  of  it,  though  only  an  infinitesimal  minority  they 
compel  tremendous  defensive  operations.  Every  morn- 
ing you  blaze  away  at  them,  you  soured  the  call  to  arms 
as  if  your  fort  were  in  danger  of  capture.  In  listen- 
ing to  you  one  would  think  it  were  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  re-establish  the  ghetto,  with  its  Rue  des  Juifs, 
to  be  barred  at  night  with  chains;  and  this  quaran- 
tine arrangement  in  our  free  cities  would  be  a  charm- 
ing arrangement,  would  it  not?  I  can  well  under- 
stand that  they  are  not  at  all  disturbed,  that  they 
continue  to  be  supreme  in  the  world  of  finance;  for 
abuse  and  injustice  are  the  legendary  arrow  which 
turns  to  pierce  the  eye  of  the  malevolent  archer.  Con- 
tinue to  persecute  them  if  you  want  them  to  continue 
to  be  your  superiors." 


320  THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS. 

"Persecution!  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  still  at 
that  primitive  stage?  You  still  imagine  that  you  can 
circumvent  people  by  persecuting  them?  Let  me 
assure  you  that  it  is  quite  the  contrary;  nothing  has 
furthered  the  cause  quite  so  effectively  as  the  blood 
of  martyrs.  If  there  are  still  Jews  in  the  world, 
the  fault  is  yours.  They  had  disappeared,  had  been 
absorbed,  had  they  not  been  forced  to  defend  them- 
selves, to  live  together,  forced  to  cling  to  their  tradi- 
tions. Even  to-day  their  greatest  power  proceeds 
from  the  fact  that  you  render  that  power  more  effective 
by  exaggerating  it.  In  the  end  danger  is  created  by 
loudly  acknowledging  that  it  exists.  By  showing  the 
people  a  scarecrow,  a  real  monster  is  created.  If  you 
cease  to  agitate  the  question  it  will  no  longer  exist. 
The  day  the  Jew  becomes  an  ordinary  man  like  our- 
selves he  will  be  our  brother. 

"  Adopt  a  different  course.  Open  your  arms.  Make 
the  law  of  equality  real  by  making  it  social.  Welcome 
the  Jew  everywhere  that  you  may  absorb  him  and 
make  him  an  equal  in  your  social  order.  Enrich  your- 
selves with  his  qualities,  for  he  has  many.  Make 
an  end  of  this  barbarous  war  of  races  by  an  ab- 
sorption of  a  race.  Encourage  intermarriages,  and 
leave  to  the  children  the  task  of  reconciling  the  fathers. 
This,  and  only  this,  is  what  is  meant  by  unity, 
humanity  and  charity.  Anti-Semitism  in  a  country 
where  it  has  any  real  importance  is  either  a  political 
weapon  or  the  result  of  a  serious  economic  situation. 
But  in  Prance,  where  it  is  not  true— as  we  have  been 
told — that  the  Jews  are  the  money  power,  anti-semit- 
ism  is  an  absolute  fallacy.  To  give  the  propaganda 
the  appearance  of  entity  the  Rothc'hilds,  by  an  absurd 
theory  of  chronology,  have  been  connected  with  Judas, 
and  in  them  is  pursued  and  delivered  the  being  who 
delivered  the  Son  of  God.  And  I  may  add  that  the 
craving  for  notoriety  has  no  small  part  in  the  attempt 
to  inflame  the  public,  an  attempt  that  happily  has  ended 
in  failure.  Yes,  a  happy  failure,  when  you  remember 
the  months  of  abuse,  of  defamation;  when  you  recall 
that  every  day  the  Jews  have  been  denounced  as 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  321 

thieves  and  assasins;  remember  that  whenever  a 
Christian  has  protested  he  has  been  stamped  a  Jew — 
the  entire  Jewish  world  hunted,  insulted,  vilified. 
However,  the  movement  has  resolved  itself  in  noth- 
ing but  noise,  in  vile  epithets,  in  low  passions.  The 
people  of  France  have  certainly  shown  wisdom,  hon- 
esty, and  goodness  in  not  listening  to  the  daily  call 
for  a  civil  war,  in  preserving  their  sanity  amidst 
these  abominable  incitements  in  which  there  has  been  a 
daily  howl  for  the  blood  of  the  Jews.  It  is  no  longer 
a  priest  upon  which  certain  journals  breakfast,  but 
upon  a  Jew,  the  largest  and  fattest  that  can  be  found. 
A  breakfast  as  meager  as  the  old  one  and  equally 
foolish.  And  in  all  this  there  remains  only  the  dregs 
of  drudgery,  a  task  than  which  there  is  none  more 
senseless  and  more  execrable.  The  extraordinary  part 
of  it  is  that  the  agitators  assume  to  be  doing  some- 
thing reasonable  and  necessary.  The  poor  fools,  how 
I  pity  them,  if  they  are  sincere.  What  a  reputation 
they  are  making  for  themselves!  A  mass  of  errors, 
of  falsehoods,  of  furious  envies,  of  lunacies— these  are 
piling  up  daily.  A  critic  who  descends  to  this  slough 
recoils  in  horror  in  seeing  that  there  is  nothing  but 
religious  bigotry  and  unbalanced  mentality.  The  mob 
inciters  will  be  pilloried  by  history.  I  must  confess 
that  I  ain  amazed  at  such  a  reversion  to  fanaticism; 
amazed  that  such  a  tentative  step  toward  a  religious 
war  should  have  been  taken  in  our  time,  in  our  mag- 
nificent Paris,  amidst  enlightened  Frenchmen.  And 
this  is  a  day  of  democracy,  of  universal  tolerance, 
when  everywhere  there  is  a  general  manifestation  in 
favor  of  equality,  of  fraternity  and  of  justice!  We 
were  -about  to  efface  national  border  lines,  were  dream- 
ing of  one  nationality  for  all  peoples;  had  called  a 
congress  of  religions  so  that  the  ministers  of  all 
beliefs  might  embrace  each  other,  so  that  we  might 
be  made  one  by  the  common  tie  of  humanity.  But 
here  is  a  handful  of  madmen,  of  imbeciles,  or  of  un- 
scrupulous adventurers  who  every  morning  command 
us  'to  kill  the  Jews;'  'devour  the  Jews;'  'massacre 
them;'  'exterminate  them;'  'let  us  return  to  the  days 


322  THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS. 

of  quartering  and  dragonnading. '  A  very  timely  mo- 
ment for  such  actions !  Nothing  would  be  more  idiotic 
were  it  not  so  abominable." 

"That  certain  number  of  Jews  possess  enormous 
wealth  there  can  be  no  question.  But  the  same  is 
true  of  Catholics  and  Protestants.  To  exploit  the  pop- 
ular protest  against  immense  riches  by  giving  them 
an  aspect  of  religious  prejudice  and  above  all  to  throw 
the  Jew  in  the  stew  brewed  by  improvidence  under 
the  pretext  that  he  alone  represents  capital  is  a  social 
hypocrisy  and  a  lie  that  should  be  denounced.  If 
some  day  the  law  of  labor  be  formulated  according 
to  the  dictates  of  truth— and  therefore  for  the  welfare 
of  all — it  will  transform  humanity;  whether  one  be 
a  Jew  or  a  Gentile  there  will  be  no  distinctions,  for 
responsibilities  will  be  equal  and  rights  and  duties 
the  same.  We  should  all  strive  for  a  union  of  the 
human  race  if  we  wish  to  live  a  genuine  life,  and 
maintain  a  hopeful  heart.  The  union  of  humanity! 
The  signal  is  indistinct  as  yet,  but  it  will  become 
clearer  and  clearer  and  at  last  reach  the  peoples  of  all 
nations,  the  peoples  who  are  thirsting  for  truth,  justice 
and  peace.  Let  us  extinguish  hate ;  let  us  strive  to  make 
all  races  one  happy  family.  Granted  that  it  will  take 
thousands  of  years ;  let  us,  nevertheless,  have  sufficient 
faith  in  its  ultimate  realization  by  appreciating  each 
other  to-day  as  much  as  the  imperfections  of  our  social 
order  will  permit." 

Beaupassant  and  Alexique  nodded  approval.  The 
others  made  no  sign ;  they  did  not  care  to  commit  them- 
selves for  Aloza  or  against  Boncourse.  Mme.  Bidet 
made  a  deft  move  to  turn  the  subject:  "Whatever 
the  Jews  may  be  I  quite  admire  Jewesses.  They  are 
among  my  best  friends.  They  are  artistic  and  impres- 
sionable, sympathetic  and  susceptible  to  culture.  They 
are  examples  of  womanly  virtue." 

"Womanly  virtue?"  took  up  Boncourse  grimly — 
the  mortification  produced  by  Aloza 's  rejoinder  was 
an  audible  note  in  his  tone: — "that  is  a  relative 
quantity.  There  are  women  who  have  the  virtue  of 
a  Zoophyte,  who  are  passionless,  without  feeling ; 


THE  SOULS  OF  PAEIS.  323 

who  regard  virtue  as  so  much  capital  that  must  not 
be  impaired  without  a  material  equivalent— a  husband 
or  some  other  worldly  advantage.  The  others,  who 
are  more  finely  organized,  who  have  a  perception  of 
the  dignity,  the  moral  beauty  which  chastity  confers, 
waive  virtue  the  instant  their  emotions  are  involved. 
I  am  convined  nor  virtue  nor  honor  nor  purity  can  pre- 
vent a  woman  from  being  a  women,  can  shield  her 
from  the  caprices  and  the  temptations  of  her  sex." 

"The  judgment  of  an  inveterate  bachelor  who  has 
never  never  known  a  real  woman,  never  known  pure 
love, ' '  mumured  Mme.  Bidet,  as  if  to  herself. 

"Pure  love,"  he  rejoined,  in  no  way  abashed  by 
her  sotto  voce  retort.  "That  is  an  irreconcilable  para- 
dox. There  can  be  no  such  thing  between  man  and 
woman.  There  is  an  affection  between  mother  and 
son,  father  and  daughter,  sister  and  brother,  but  pure 
love.  It  is  impossible!  The  ultimate  manifestation  of 
love  is  impure.  Hence  the  absurdity  of  the  phrase, 
'The  purifying  influence  of  woman's  love.'  A  woman 
makes  for  refinement,  not  for  purity.  And  love  itself, 
as  it  is  understood  among  you  to-day,  is  no  longer  the 
healthful,  the  almost  hygienic  love  of  the  good  old 
days.  You  have  heaped  upon  woman,  you  have  made 
her  responsible  for,  all  your  ideals,  all  your  aspirations. 
She  has  become  for  you  the  nest  and  the  altar  of  all 
sorts  of  acute  and  poignant  and  delirious  sensations. 
In  her  and  through  her  you  would  satisfy  the  frenzied 
and  insatiable  longings  and  ambitions  within  you.  You 
no  longer  know  how  to  be  happy  in  a  simple  way  with 
a  woman." 

"We  wish  to  give  her  a  chance  to  come  into  her 
own;  we  wish  to  make  her  our  equal  in  everything," 
ventured  Hansmann. 

"By  that  you  mean  you  would  have  her  your  super- 
ior. Confer  upon  her  the  rights  of  man  and  the 
privileges  of  woman.  But  why  not  return  to  the  sensi- 
ble idea  of  our  fathers  and  make  her  your  companion  * 
In  life  there  must  be  a  male  and  a  female.  Either 
you  must  remain  male  or  become  female  and  put 
woman  in  your  place.  If  woman  has  a  grievance  for 


324  THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS. 

having  been  born  a  woman,  she  should  blame  nature, 
not  society.  By  effacing  yourself  and  putting  woman 
foremost  you  disorganize  the  social  system.  You  could 
give  woman  every  possible  power,  put  her  in  public 
offices,  clothe  her  with  the  highest  authority  and  she 
still  would  be  a  woman— ruled  by  her  emotions,  de- 
fective in  judgment." 

"Because  man  from  the  first  warped  her  judgment 
by  withholding  opportunities  to  exercise  it;  her  emo- 
tions are  uncontrolled  because  her  other  faculties  have 
been  repressed  by  man's  law."  It  was  Hansmann  who 
said  it,  slowly  but  distinctly. 

"Oh,  that  is  your  view,  is  it  "?  Boncourse  eyed 
him  with  a  look  of  mingled  malignity  and  disdain. 
Then,  turning  to  the  others  as  if  he  were  examining 
a  patient  for  the  benefit  of  the  students  in  a  clinic : 
"Now,  you  see,  he  is  become  a  woman  suffragist. 
Everything  in  quick  succession  with  him.  He  will 
be  all  things  in  turn.  Yesterday  he  was  a  realist  more 
accurate  and  minute  than  Aloza  here;  to-morrow  he 
will  be  a  monk,  will  wish  to  join  the  Trappists.  Young 
man,  he  again  faced  Hansmann— "it  were  well  for  you 
to  remember  that  all  earnest  observers  are  at  bottom 
sad  and  necessarily  so.  They  are  students  of  life. 
They  are  not  actors  but  spectators  of  life.  They  take 
nothing  that  is  deceptive  or  that  intoxicates.  Their 
normal  state  is  melancholy  serenity.  You  are  swayed 
by  what  you  see.  That  will  never  do.  If  you  want 
to  be  somebody,  if  you  wish  to  do  something  of  prom- 
inence, keep  yourself  in  hand — and  keep  away  from 
the  cafes  and  political  discussions." 

"Exactly,"  emphasized  Creux  maliciously,  and  as 
if  to  disprove  the  thrust.  "Aloza,  early  in  my  career, 
told  me  to  work,  work.  It  is  all  there.  Keep  away 
from  the  cafes  and  get  Murger's  'Vie  de  Boheme'  out 
of  your  head.  Don't  waste  a  minute.  Don't  think 
of  pleasure  until  you  have  made  a  name ;  and  it  is  only 
in  front  of  your  easel  that  you  will  make  a  name. ' ' 

"Admirable  advice,"  took  up  Sartost,  "but  like 
all  admirable  things  it  has  its  defects— and  its  day. 
You,  yourself,"— looking  at  Aloza— "I  know  are  not 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  325 

as  convinced  of  the  efficacy  of  continuous  application 
as  you  were,  say,  ten  years  ago.  As  a  basis  for  work 
there  must  be  palpable  talent,  urging,  incentive  talent. 
One  may  have  immense  energy,  enthusiasm  even,  which 
will  hold  a  student  in  his  workshop  day  and  night, 
but  of  what  avail  if  he  be  not  gifted?  I  grant  you 
that  powerful  inclination  together  with  indomitable 
industry,  will  produce  cerain  results,  but  they  will  be 
inferior  if  the  gift  be  lacking.  It  is  a  dangerous  fallacy, 
that  mere  work  will  produce  masterpieces.  It  is  my 
observation  that  the  higher  the  genius  the  less  effort 
is  required  for  its  manifestation. ' ' 

"What  do  you  mean  by  genius?  Are  not  patience 
and  determination  genius?"  Paul  Alexis  asked  as  if  in 
defense  of  Aloza. 

"By  no  means.  I  should  say  they  are  the  nega- 
tive of  what  the  term  implies.  A  genius  does  things 
with  facility,  without  effort,  does  them  indeed  with 
almost  unconscious  inevitability.  How  would  you 
define  it,  Beaupassant?" 

"I  should  define  a  genius  one  who  apprehends 
something  of  that  which  we  call  a  sixth  sense." 

"By  a  sixth  sense  I  think  you  mean  a  complete 
imagination.  All  artists  have  imaginations,  but  among 
the  few  who  are  really  great  the  imagination  is  com- 
plete. That  was  Tourgenieff's  definition,"  added  Bidet. 

"Renan  has  it  but  has  never  exercised  it,"  ven- 
tured Robin. 

"Renan  would  have  many  transcendant  qualities 
if  he  cared  for  them.  But  Renan  lacks  not  only  ini- 
tiative, he  wants  a  sense  of  affirmation.  He  is  equivo- 
cation incarnate,  a  defect  women  cannot  forgive,"  was 
Mme.  Bidet's  conviction. 

"Yes,  in  conversation  he  agrees  with  everybody. 
To  me  he  will  say  yes,  to  Creux  no,  when  I  say  yes  and 
Creux  says  no,"  affirmed  Henrique. 

"And  yet  he  is  not  insincere,"  interposed  Bon- 
course,  "because  he  sees  all  sides  of  all  things.  That 
is  why  he  cannot  be  affirmative.  He  is  your  opposite, 
Aloza.  You  see  one  side  only  and  therein  lies  your 


326  THE  SOULS  OF  PAEIS. 

strength,  your  invincible  conviction.  You  have  no 
trouble  in  finding  truth." 

"If  Renan  sees  so  many  sides  he  should  select  one 
of  many,  the  best,"  rejoined  Aloza. 

"Ah,  what  is  the  best?  In  this  Paris  of  yours  it 
is  difficult  to  decide.  The  very  air  is  charged  with 
theories— all  plausible— and  subtleties."  The  senti- 
ment was  voiced  with  a  despairing  sigh  by  the  big 
Guillemet,  from  whom  it  seemed  incongruous. 

"I  don't  find  it  so.  My  subjects  and  forms  are  very 
clear  to  me, ' '  returned  Robin  positively. 

"You,  of  course  you  don't.  You  are  to  sculpture 
what  Aloza  is  to  letters, ' '  answered  Mme.  Bidet  equally 
positive.  "The  observation  is  not  original.  I  read  it 
in  the  Figaro  to-day.  Lazarre  said  it. ' ' 

"What  pleasure  does  Lemaitre  find  in  calling 
Lazarre  a  Prussian  Jew  ?  There  is  no  wit  in  that  even 
if  it  were  true,"  declared  Hansmann. 

"In  default  of  other  abuse  I  suppose,"  responded 
Robin.  "But  it  may  give  Lemaitre  a  little  personal 
satisfaction.  At  heart  he's  a  Jew  hater  and  in  pro- 
clivities a  Jew  baiter.  If  he  ever  enters  politics  he 
will  show  himself  a  monarchist.  He  professes  progress 
in  the  arts,  but  I  doubt  his  sincerity.  A  reactionary 
in  politics  and  a  radical  in  literature— they  do  not 
coincide." 

"I  differ  from  you  about  Lemaitre 's  prejudice 
against  the  Jews,"  objected  Creux.  "Read  his  praises 
of  Bernhardt ;  and  he  was  the  first  to  welcome  a  revival 
of  Offenbach.  Look  at  his  brilliant  review  of  'Le  Belle 
Helene'— a  startling  innovation  for  the  '  Journal  des 
Debats'." 

"What  else  could  he  say?"  queried  Boncourse 
calmly.  "He  discovered  neither  Bernhardt  nor  Offen- 
bach. Bernhardt  had  been  recognized  by  Sarcy  and 
Offenbach  was  dead  before  Lemaitre  came  to  Paris. 
Both  were  world  famous  before  Lemaitre  wrote  a  line 
of  criticism.  Do  you  know"— he  swerved— "I  have 
always  thought  that  Offenbach  is  the  Aristophanes  of 
music. ' ' 

"Lazarre  told  me  the  other  day  he  was  writing  a 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  327 

biographical  sketch  of  Offenbach  for  Figaro,"  added 
Alexis.  "He  and  Melhac  were  Offenbach's  house  mates 
during  the  summer  months.  He  says  that  the  last  six 
years  of  Offenbach's  life  the  composer  suffered  the  tor- 
ture which  made  Heine's  final  years  a  prolonged  agony 
—and  for  the  same  reason.  But  there  was  a  difference. 
Offenbach's  iron  will  kept  him  out  of  bed,  enabled  him 
to  work  until  death  extinguished  the  last  flickering 
light  in  his  emaciated  body.  He  died  like  Meyerbeer, 
with  stylus  in  hand  (sur  la  breche). 

"His  was  an  extraordinary  gift.  The  masters  in 
music  as  well  as  the  crowd  revelled  in  his  compositions. 
Gounod  is  an  exception.  I  think  Gounod  does  not  ap- 
prove because  of  the  librettos.  Delibes,  Massenet,  Masse 
and  Saint-Saens,  all  have  told  me  they  love  Offen- 
bach's scores.  Delibes  says  that  in  his  time  he  had  not 
missed  an  Offenbach  premier." 

"But  I'm  afraid,"  continued  Bidet,  "that  Delibes' 
strength  is  failing.  I  saw  him  on  Monday.  He  looked 
as  if  a  mortal  disease  had  seized  him.  These  latter 
days  (de  nos  jours)  musicians  live  a  tense  life;  all 
emotion;  very  little  calm,  although  Saint-Saens  reim- 
burses nature  by  a  regularity  of  physical  exercise— he, 
the  athlete,  who  needs  it  less." 

"But  Massenet  escapes  Paris  and  its  enervating 
indulgences.  He  dashes  to  Africa  and  Asia  now  and 
again,  as  you  did  several  times,"  said  Mme.  Bidet  to 
her  husband,  quite  directly. 

"Which  did  not  prevent  me  from  returning  immedi- 
ately when  word  reached  me  that  the  Odeon  had  ac- 
cepted my  first  play.  Heavens!  what  emotions  I  felt 
in  that  return  from  Algiers.  I  had  been  there  one  day 
only  when  the  news  reached  me.  I  forgot  my  illness, 
my  pecuniary  distress,  everything.  Those  were  the  days 
of  youth,  of  enthusiasm.  Beaupassant,  I  wonder  you've 
never  tried  a  play,  you  who  like  the  theatre." 

"I  have  tried;  I  have  two  plays,  one  in  verse,  the 
other  in  prose.  I  have  not  submitted  them.  There  is 
no  hurry.  I  hope  to  persuade  Mademoiselle  (turning 
to  Laura)  to  become  French  and  appear  in  my  plays." 

Everybody  applauded.     Yes,  one  must  make  con- 


328  THE  SOULS  OP  PABIS. 

verts;  France  needs  women  as  well  as  men.  Talents 
are  more  useful  to  a  nation  than  soldiers.  They  would 
not  let  Madamoiselle  return  to  America.  She  must  be- 
come French.  They  would  speak  to  Perrin  and  insist 
that  she  be  given  a  chance  at  the  Theatre  Franchise. 
If  not  there,  then  at  the  Odeon  or  the  Gymnase.  These 
only  half-earnest  and  entirely  jovial  protestations  were 
flattering  nevertheless  and  embarrassing ;  so  when  Bon- 
course  questioned  her  about  the  stage  of  her  own  coun- 
try she  was  glad  to  be  drawn  from  her  confusion.  They 
were  astonished  that  the  States  had  so  few  good  play- 
wrights, that  the  American  theatre  drew  so  largely  on 
France,  England  and  Germany  for  plays.  She  created 
amazement  and  amusement  in  telling  that  French  and 
German  plays  were  calmly  appropriated  without  a  sug- 
gestion of  credit  by  American  adapters,  who  confidently 
claimed  authorship  by  simply  changing  the  names  of  the 
characters  and  transferring  the  scene  of  action  from 
Berlin  and  Paris  to  New  York.  The  author's  interest 
deepened  when  she  told  of  the  French  novelists'  popu- 
larity in  the  United  States ;  but  a  feeling  of  humiliation 
came  upon  her  when  Aloza  added  that  neither  he  nor  his 
friends  had  received  a  franc  from  the  sales  of  their 
translated  books  in  the  States. 

She  was  relieved  when  the  talk  turned  to  other 
subjects.  There  was  less  continuity  of  ideas  as  the 
dinner  came  to  an  end,  but  the  observations  if  not 
more  bold  in  form  were  brilliant.  Laura  noticed  that 
Aloza  was  a  heavy  eater,  Bidet  also ;  Boncourse  drank 
many  glasses  of  red  wine,  but  ate  moderately.  Beau- 
passant  had  no  appetite ;  he  touched  a  few  dishes  only 
and  took  no  wine.  Mme.  Bidet  partook  of  food  so  deli- 
cately that  her  dining  was  almost  imperceptible. 
Mme.  Aloza 's  employment  of  knife  and  fork  was  as 
conspicuous  as  her  husband's;  both  dined  like  hearty 
burghers.  The  others  were  liberal  consumers.  Creux's 
glass  was  reversed  from  the  beginning.  To  Laura's 
look  of  casual  inquiry  he  explained  that  he  would  be- 
gin taking  stimulants  when  he  shall  have  attained 
the  age  of  sixty.  People  of  health,  he  held  should 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  329 

not  drink  before  that  age.    From  sixty  on  wine  was 
beneficial. 

As  repletion  progressed  the  talk  became  more 
snippety.  But  Laura,  who  was  all  attention,  was  im- 
pressed by  many  observations  emitted  randomly.  Al- 
fred de  Vigny  was  declared  to  be  a  "mediocre  mind 
with  fine  lyrical  manifestations. ' '  Sarah  Bernhardt  had 
"a  pretty  brain  without  a  rudder,"  Bandelaire  was— 
"the  quintessence  of  Musset;"  Verlaine  "the  lees  of 
Badelaire."  Bidet  declared  there  was  an  overwhelm- 
ing dose  of  the  provincial  in  Balzac  which  was  crassly 
manifested  in  the  description  of  modish  society.  He 
described  the  high  life  of  Paris  like  a  rustic  with  a 
dazzled  imagination,  as  one  who  had  never  dreamed 
of  such  splendor.  Bidet  also  observed  the  most  try- 
ing age  with  children  is  between  eleven  and  thirteen, 
the  time  between  childhood  and  youth,  the  years  of 
ingratitude  when  boys  and  girls  are  stupid  and  sulky, 
recusant  and  ungrateful;  their  movements  awkward, 
their  voices  strident  and  transitory.  And  then  he  made 
a  memorable  analogy ;  he  insisted  that  all  artists — writ- 
ers, painters,  musicians— have  that  age  in  art.  Aloza 
spoke  of  a  politician,  a  neurotic,  who  was  swayed 
altogether  by  his  nerves.  He  judged  through  his 
nerves — and  there  were  days  when  his  nerves  seemed 
to  have  common  sense.  Beaupassant  mentioned  some- 
body who  was  a  bundle  of  expansiveness ;  somebody 
who  expands  before  everybody,  indiscriminately,  reck- 
lessly. That  was  not  indiscretion,  it  was  self-abandon- 
ment. Boncourse  remembered  a  thought  which  Tour- 
genieff  expresses;  as  they  grow  old,  great  artists,  the 
conquerors  of  the  masses  and  of  hearts,  and  very 
beautiful  women— all  beings  who  have  lived  a  trium- 
phant life— sadden,  become  melancholy  when  they 
feel  that  their  power  and  their  charms  are  waning. 
This  reminded  Aloza  of  a  comparison  the  Russian  once 
made;  extinguished  stars,  extinct  perhaps  thousands 
of  years,  but  whose  luster  continues,  are  like  departed 
geniuses  whose  voices  through  their  works  we  shall 
hear  for  countless  centuries.  We  still  hear  Homer. 
Bidet  recalled  a  less  lyrical  analogy  uttered  by  Tour- 


330  THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS. 

genieff:  Noon  was  the  critical  hour  of  the  day  and 
thirty  years  the  critical  period  in  a  woman's  life.  Be- 
fore noon  time  one  could  not  tell  that  the  day  would 
be  fine;  before  woman  had  attained  her  thirtieth  year 
it  was  impossible  to  predict  her  future  virtue. 

Although  the  transitions  were  many  and  sudden 
and  the  talk  more  and  more  careless  and  disjointed 
Laura  was  deeply  impressed  with  what  had  been  said 
of  Tourgenieff.  She  resolved  to  ask  Beaupassant,  on 
their  return  to  the  hotel,  to  tell  her  more  of  this  author. 
As  the  moment  for  going  neared,  Laura  observed  the 
manners  of  the  company  and  paid  less  attention  to 
what  they  said.  These  people  were  simple,  easy,  yet 
not  undignified;  they  were  intimate  but  not  familiar; 
confidential  though  not  to  the  degree  of  abandonment. 
Still  there  was  something  wanting  in  the  men.  Per- 
haps the  defect  was  an  assumption  on  her  part— or 
the  result  of  her  birth,  her  way  of  looking  at  the 
world.  Ah,  a  suggestion  of  the  explanation  had  just 
come  from  Boncourse;  he  spoke  of  the  suicide  of 
Charles  Marchal,  a  painter,  who  was  found  almost  in 
rags,  in  a  garret,  without  bread,  a  grisette  of  sixteen 
sleeping  beside  his  cold  body.  He  had  snuffed  out  his 
light  in  a  moment  of  despair.  Laura  thought,  these 
Frenchmen  feel  too  deeply  on  one  thing.  Their  in- 
tensely emotional  nature  is  focal  and  they  are  de- 
moralized too  easily  through  exterior  causes.  They 
lack  serenity,  an  ingrained  determination;  and  above 
all,  they  are  devoid  of  that  touch  of  Homeric  indiffer- 
ence which  allows  an  Englishman  or  an  American 
to  retain  his  poise  in  a  crisis. 

In  Boncourse 's  narration  of  the  suicide  there  was 
an  incident  that  struck  Laura  as  characteristically 
Latin— and  beautiful.  Just  before  the  coffin  was  closed 
the  young  grisette  had  cut  off  her  hair,  which  reached 
almost  to  her  feet,  and  had  tied  it  around  her  lover's 
neck.  The  last  thing  Laura  remembered  of  the  many 
interesting  observations  made  at  this  dinner  was  Bon- 
course's  reply  to  Hansmann's  question  as  to  when  a 
man  feels  that  he  is  growing  old ;  age  is  not  a  thing  of 
gradations;  it  does  not  "steal"  upon  one  as  psuedo- 


THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS.  331 

sentimentalists  have  phrased  it;  it  comes  upon  one 
suddenly,  as  a  solemn  revelation.  Something  casual, 
something  incidental  reveals  it ;  a  random  illustration : 
—We  meet  a  man  or  a  woman  whom  we  had  last  seen 
a  child  and  not  until  then  do  we  realize  our  sixty 
years. 

"Does  Boncourse  fear  death?"  was  Laura's  first 
question  when  seated  in  the  cab. 

"No,  not  death.  He  fears  for  his  reputation  after 
death.  He  burns  to  be  immortal.  I  believe  there  is 
no  one  you  met  to-night  who  is  afraid  to  die,  but 
nearly  all  dread  old  age  and  its  attendant  infirmities. 
Aloza  has  a  positive  terror  of  a  loss  of  his  mental 
faculties.  On  the  contrary,  Bidet  has  a  horror  of  phys- 
ical weakness;  to  be  weak  of  limb  or  short  of  breath 
or  dim  of  sight  would  be  absolute  torture  to  him.  But 
Tourgenieff  —  " 

"You  were  to  tell  me  of  Tourgenieff." 

"He  was  an  exception.  He  looked  upon  death  with 
indifference  if  he  did  not  welcome  it.  When  he  was 
ill  here  in  Paris  he  wished  for  death.  Not  that  his 
spinal  trouble  gave  him  unbearable  pain.  He  simply 
did  not  want  to  live  longer ;  he  did  not  think  it  worth 
while.  I  have  an  idea  that  Tourgenieff  was  disap- 
pointed in  love  as  a  young  man,  a  deep  disappointment 
that  stamped  itself  upon  his  heart  and  accentuated 
his  melancholy  temperament,  for  he  was  melancholy, 
not  pessimistic.  You  can  imagine  nothing  more  incon- 
gruous than  this  Russian  giant ;  I  mean  the  uncompro- 
mising discrepancy  between  the  psychic  and  the  physi- 
cal ;  one  would  think  that  the  Creator  had  made  a  mis- 
take in  placing  the  tender  emotional  soul  of  a  woman 
in  that  cyclopean  frame,  huge  and  rugged  even  for 
a  Russian;  a  colossus  who  towered  above  everybody, 
above  Flaubert  himself,  who  was  one  of  the  tallest  men 
in  France.  He  was  awkard,  angular,  his  head  bent  for- 
ward; his  voice  deep,  almost  raucous,  his  feet  flat  and 
spreading,  his  hands  bony  and  coarse;  the  thumb  of  a 
blacksmith;  his  beard  thick,  unkempt.  Yet  in  this 
giant  body  there  was  a  being  the  essence  of  grace, 
and  refinement ;  a  heart  always  aglow  and  vibrant,  sen- 


332  THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS. 

sitive  and  highly  susceptible.  An  intellect  highly  pene- 
trating. And  permeating  all  the  Slav— "the  fatalism  of 
the  Asiatic,  the  sweet  sadness  of  the  North.  Music  was 
his  all  in  all ;  it  was  not  his  passion,  he  did  not  merely 
love  it,  it  was  his  religion.  Flaubert  called  Tourgen- 
ieff's  books  poems  in  prose.  To  my  thinking  the  de- 
scription is  wide  of  the  mark.  To  me  they  are  musical 
romances;  the  plaintive,  the  pathetic  music  of  the 
slave,  the  sad  song  of  the  Moujik  whose  sobs  are  in 
every  chapter  of  those  Russian  novels  that,  when  you've 
finished  them,  make  you  think  of  the  sigh  of  humanity 
of  which  Homer  speaks.  For  years  he  lived  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  music — at  the  house  of  Mme.  Viardot,  Viardot- 
Garcia,  the  brilliant  cantatrice  and  the  sister  of  Mali- 
bran.  The  art  of  letters,  in  which  he  was  one  of  the 
supreme  masters,  he  deemed  a  secondary  thing.  When- 
ever he  wished  to  convey  an  inexpressible  thought  or 
emotion  his  expression  was  always  the  same,  'this  can 
only  be  told  in  music ;  music  begins  where  words  end. ' 
His  generosity  was  limitless,  his  endeavors  to  further 
his  friends  ceaseless.  He  called  the  attention  of  Tol- 
stoy and  other  Russians  to  my  first  stories.  He  ar- 
ranged for  Aloza  a  weekly  correspondence  in  a  St. 
Petersburg  journal.  His  acts  of  charity  were  almost 
daily  and  were  bounded  only  by  his  income.  His  learn- 
ing was  prodigious  but  never  obstrusive.  He  wrote 
French  as  well  as  Russian  and  German.  He  knew  En- 
glish like  a  cultured  foreign  resident  of  England ;  and 
Italian  and  Spanish  were  to  him  easy  if  not  intimate. 
But  he  was  simple  to  timidity  and  deferential  as  a 
neophyte.  At  bottom  he  did  not  like  Bidet;  he  dis- 
trusted him.  The  dislike  and  distrust  may  have  had 
their  origin  in  the  racial  antipathy  of  the  man  of  the 
north  for  the  man  of  the  south.  And  again,  the  keen- 
ness of  his  understanding,  the  surety  of  his  fine  per- 
ception, may  have  revealed  Bidet's  character  in  a 
clearer  light  than  that  which  governs  our  perception 
of  him.  There  certainly  is  something  petty,  something 
femininely  envious  about  Bidet  which  broad,  manly 
natures  like  Aloza  and  Boncourse  and  even  Flaubert 
could  not  see." 


THE  SOULS  OF  PAEIS.  333 

"I  believe  but  two  of  you  have  married — Aloza  and 
Bidet." 

' '  Yes,  Aloza  wanted  a  housekeeper  and  Bidet  a  com- 
panion and  a  literary  helpmate. ' ' 

"And  the  others— why  did  they  not  marry?" 

"I  cannot  speak  for  all.  Flaubert  had  a  peculiar 
view  of  women.  He  prized  their  intelligence,  their  in- 
fluence for  refinement.  But  he  considered  them  men- 
tally feeble  and  ultimately  destructive  to  artistic  force. 
The  Boncourses  were  inseparable.  They  were  to  each 
other  wife,  sister,  brother.  When  Edouard  died  it  was 
as  if  Emile  had  lost  a  cherished  wife  for  whom  he  must 
mourn  forever  and  a  day.  Tourgenieff,  as  I  have  said, 
had,  I  believe,  an  affair  of  the  heart  when  a  young  man 
which  stamped  itself  upon  his  intensely  Slav  nature." 

Beaupassant  subsided  to  silence.  The  hack  had  lined 
up  among  a  long  file  of  vehicles  in  front  of  the  hotel, 
awaiting  its  turn  to  the  carriage  entrance.  Laura  broke 
the  dead  pause.  "And  you,  why  have  you  not  mar- 
ried?" 

He  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  seemed  to  be 
groping  for  an  expression  which  would  give  his  reason 
clearly.  Finally:  "I  have  not  married  because  I  wish 
to  have  mind  and  heart  entirely  free.  I  must  have  them 
disengaged  and  unaffected  else  I  cannot  think  clearly, 
act  wisely.  Shall  I  now  tell  you  why  I  pressed  an  inti- 
mate acquaintance  between  ourselves  so  quickly?" 

Laura  nodded. 

"And  you  will  promise  me  not  to  be  offended,  not 
even  piqued." 

She  again  nodded,  fairly  charged  with  the  curiosity 
which  her  eyes  disclosed. 

"Of  late  my  sight  has  compelled  me  to  dictate  my 
work.  The  doctor  says  my  eyes  are  perfect,  or,  rather, 
each  eye  is  perfect  jn  its  way ;  but  they  do  not  har- 
monize; they  are  like  two  high  bred  horses  of  totally 
different  breed  that  will  not  be  driven  under  the  same 
rein.  I  was  compelled  to  engage  an  amanuensis,  who 
proved  fatally  attractive.  I  was  in  danger  of  falling 
in  love;  perhaps  I  was  already  infatuated.  Anyhow, 
I  could  not  forget  her.  She  was  in  my  thoughts,  in 


334  THE  SOULS  OF  PARIS. 

my  nerves.  Another  stenographer  could  not  expel  her 
from  my  mind.  Then  you  came.  I  hoped  that  with  you 
I  could  forget  her— and  I  have  forgotten.  Thank  you. ' ' 

"Then  I  was  used  as  a  counter  irritant?" 

"No,  as  a  delightful  antidote." 

"Thank  you,  monsieur.  I  feel  highly,  most  highly 
complimented ! ' ' 

She  had  promised  not  to  be  even  piqued.  But  her 
woman's  vanity  was  affronted  and  withal  she  was 
shocked  that  a  Frenchman  of  Beaupassant 's  tact  had 
made  such  an  avowal,  above  all  to  her.  She  scarce 
touched  his  hand  as  she  stepped  from  the  carriage; 
her  acknowledgment  of  his  good-night  was  a  mere  nod. 
As  he  turned  away  there  flashed  upon  her  mind  a  line 
she  had  read  in  Le  Temps  the  other  day ;  in  a  literary 
review  a  woman,  a  Madame  Somebody,  presumed  the 
view  that  men  authors,  even  those  whose  specific  gift 
was  delicacy  of  touch,  had  their  moments  of  inconceiv- 
able ineptitude,  grossness,  stupidity. 


CHAPTER  XXX IH. 

NIRVANA. 

When  Laura  entered  Mrs.  Quincy  called  attention 
to  a  cablegram  sent  up  late  in  the  evening.  It  read: 
"Sail  as  soon  as  possible.  Opening  date  advanced. 
Gars."  Obviously  he  had  shifted  his  plans  and  in  the 
shift  Laura  had  been  moved  forward  in  point  of  time. 
What  she  had  thought  and  felt  that  day  vanished  in- 
stantly; from  the  world  of  aspirations— with  its  hopes, 
high  but  vague,  its  rare  joys  and  acute  doubts,  its  ob- 
jective elevations  and  subjective  humiliations— she 
descended  instantly  to  the  exactions  of  her  profession. 
A  Journal  des  Debats  was  lying  on  the  table.  Passing 
Jules  Lemaitre's  review  of  the  theatre,  she  quickly 
turned  to  the  sailings.  The  next  steamer  of  the  Native 
Transatlantic  Company  would  not  put  off  for  six  days, 
but  there  was  a  fast  boat  which  would  lift  anchor  at 
an  English  port  the  third  day  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  Before  retiring  there  was  a  half  hour's 
parley  with  Mrs.  Quincy.  Laura's  gowns  had  been  de- 
livered, yet  there  then  occurred  to  her  a  batch  of  mis- 
cellaneous things  she  wished  to  purchase.  But  before 
all  she  must  engage  a  state  room. 

She  was  about  to  leave  for  Tavenue  de  1 'Opera  the 
next  morning  to  secure  passage  for  home  when  the 
American  correspondent's  card  was  brought  up.  He 
had  just  received  word  from  the  home  office  that  Miss 
Darnby  was  to  return  immediately.  If  agreeable,  he 
would  accompany  her  to  the  steamship  office  and  on 
the  way  Miss  Darnby  could  say  what  she  had  to  say. 
To  whom  had  Beaupassant  introduced  her?  And  what 
were  her  impressions  of  the  people  she  had  met  *  What 
in  particular  did  she  think  of  Beaupassant.  Had  she 

(883) 


336  NIRVANA. 

seen  Mounet— Sully 's  "Hamlet"?  He  was  an  artillery 
of  interrogations  to  the  door  of  the  International  Navi- 
gation Company,  where  he  bade  her  adieu  abruptly  and 
hurried  away  as  if  impatient  to  deliver  himself  of  the 
column  that  had  rapidly  grown  in  his  journalistic  brain. 

Yes,  the  English-speaking  clerk  had  a  pleasant 
stateroom  at  her  disposal;  on  the  promenade  deck, 
away  from  the  engines.  Was  she  an  American  citizen 
— citizeness?  he  corrected  himself  smilingly.  He  noted 
the  apparently  important  affirmative  and  then  sug- 
gested that  by  paying  a  little  more  she  could  have  her 
luggage  checked  right  through— without  examination 
in  England— to  the  English  dock.  He  confided  to  her 
that  he  was  going  to  England  himself  by  way  of  Dieppe, 
the  third  day.  His  elation  at  going  to  London  seemed 
irrepressible,  and  to  Laura  it  was  incomprehensible  that 
anyone  should  feel  other  than  dejected  at  leaving  Paris. 
Her  dejection  was  mixed  with  unnamable  sadness, 
when  the  train  moved  out  of  S.  Lazzarre  station;  and 
when  the  domes  of  Val  de  Grace,  the  Pantheon  and  les 
Invalides  were  lost  to  sight  she  could  not  control  her 
tears.  Mrs.  Quincy  tried  to  console  her;  she  surely 
would  return  to  Paris  next  year;  her  husband  would 
accompany  her  next  time.  Paris,  after  all,  was  not  far 
from  New  York;  you  simply  boarded  a  steamer  near 
the  foot  of  Rector  Street  and  in  less  than  a  week  you 
were  in  Paris.  The  trip  was  not  much  longer  and  cer- 
tainly was  less  fatiguing  than  going  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, etc.,  etc., 

Hope,  that  elusive  and  illusive,  always  deferring  and 
ever-recurring  impalpability,  had  not  yet  completely 
instilled  itself  in  her  at  Mrs.  Quincy 's  suggestion,  when 
the  train  halted.  She  recognized  Rouen  and  Beaupas- 
sant  rose  before  her  in  full  palpability.  She  did  not 
know  until  the  next  stop,  which  was  at  Dieppe's  limits, 
that  her  fellow  passengers  were  mostly  of  the  modish 
world.  The  compartment  system  of  railways  precluded 
a  knowledge  of  the  number  and  character  of  travelers. 
At  the  city's  entrance  the  train  was  fairly  pre-empted 
of  Mondains  and  Mondaines,  all  having  that  air  of 
cheerful  indifference  which  is  affected  by  people  who 


NIEVANA.  337 

are  or  who  would  be  fashionable.  A  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  the  train  dashed  upon  a  dock  facing  ocean  waves 
flashing  in  the  sunlight.  The  channel  craft,  bright  and 
white,  looked  like  a  blending  of  a  large  yacht  and  a 
small  excursion  boat ;  it  appeared  inadequate  for  rough 
seas  and  the  considerable  body  of  passengers  who  were 
permitted  to  cross  the  gang  plank.  Immediately  Laura 
was  on  deck  some  one  doffed  a  hat  and  said:  "I  took 
the  liberty  to  reserve  chairs  for  you,  ladies." 

It  was  the  clerk  from  the  steamship  office  in  Paris. 
Laura  was  pleased  and  frankly  expressed  her  apprecia- 
tion. She  invited  him  to  be  seated  beside  them  and  at 
once  confessed  that  a  channel  voyage  was  new  to  her, 
that  she  had  never  been  in  England.  He  reciprocally 
expanded.  He  made  the  trip  every  fortnight.  His  home 
was  in  London  and  he  visited  his  folks  twice  a  month. 
The  seasickness  going  over?  That  had  been  obviated. 
The  malady  had  ceased  with  the  advent  of  the  new  steam- 
ers Which  now  plied  between  first-class  ports.  More- 
over, the  weal/her  favored  fine  sailing.  Whilst  he  was 
describing  the  miseries  of  such  a  trip  in  the  old  boats, 
Laura  heard  the  decidedly  English-looking  captain 
shouting  orders  in  French  as  the  ropes  were  loosened 
for  the  departure.  She  asked  if  the  officer  was  English. 
Yes,  and  the  only  Englishman  in  the  crew.  The  sailors 
were  French,  who  though  they  were  in  English  towns 
every  day  knew  not  a  word  of  the  language  and  in  that 
they  were  characteristically  French. 

Certain  French  officers  only  pretended  to  English. 
The  naval  college  compelled  a  knowledge  of  the  tongue 
—since  the  Franco-Prussian  war.  The  indolence  was 
of  ancient  date  and  was  not  the  fault  of  France.  Before 
the  fight  with  Prussia  every  European  with  even  a 
pretense  of  education  knew  French,  so  why  should  the 
French  have  bothered  with  foreign  tongues? 

Many  sails  were  in  view,  steaming  and  sailing  in 
every  direction.  Ships  from  the  north,  from  the  south, 
from  east,  from  west.  Laura  wondered  how  it  was  pos- 
sible to  avoid  a  collision  at  night  and  especially  in  a 
fog.  She  expressed  the  wonder.  He  did  not  answer 
directly,  but  noted  that  mariners  care  little  for  storms, 


338  NIEVANA. 

however  severe;  did  not  dread  the  night,  but  were  al- 
ways fearful  of  fogs— next  to  fire  the  most  dangerous 
element  in  the  experience  of  seafarers.  A  singular 
sensation  enwrapt  Laura;  thoughts  so  swiftly  succes- 
sive as  to  be  almost  simultaneous,  came  to  her,  of 
descriptions  of  death  at  sea  she  had  read  in  novels,  in 
newspapers;  of  suicide  by  drowning;  of  an  evolution- 
ist's theory  that  as  life  itself  originated  in  water  it 
should  end  there;  instead  of  in  the  ground;  she  re- 
called— the  vision  was  marvelously  vivid— the  funeral 
of  the  steerage  passenger,  the  poor  woman  who  had 
prayed  so  fervently  that  her  sins  might  be  forgiven. 

"I  beg  pardon,  but  are  you  ill?" 

The  question  lifted  her  from  the  somber  spell. 

"No,  I  am  just  thinking  of  a  sad  affair  that  occurred 
on  board  ship  when  I  came  over." 

"You  were  so  pale  I  was  afraid  that,  after  all,  the 
channel  did  not  agree  with  you." 

He  turned  the  subject.  He  called  attention  to  the 
elderly,  portly  man  wearing  green  spectacles,  who  had 
been  scrutinizing  passengers  furtively  and  who  had 
just  formed  the  acquaintance  of  a  young  man  of  ner- 
vous appearance.  As  both  walked  past,  the  elderly  man 
exclaimed:  "So  you  are  from  Philadelphia?  It's  an 
interesting  city.  I've  property  there." 

"That  fellow,"  the  clerk  said,  "is  a  detective  and 
a  very  awkward  one.  To  any  one  at  all  observant,  he 
would  be  impossible.  Everything  about  him  shows  who 
he  is.  He  could  deceive  nobody  except  an  absolutely 
innocent  traveler.  With  the  exception  of  the  German, 
English  detectives  were  the  worst  in  the  world." 

Several  of  the  travelers  who  were  familiar  with  the 
route  smiled  broadly  as  they  observed  the  innocence  of 
both — the  traveler  who  thought  he  had  met  a  property 
owner  in  his  city,  the  sleuth  who  believed  he  was 
enmeshing  a  fugitive  criminal. 

The  voyage  was  without  further  incident.  The  clerk, 
in  response  to  Mrs.  Quincy's  questions,  suggested  a 
hotel  in  London.  Just  before  the  landing  he  confessed 
his  all-embracing  admiration  for  American  women; 
they  were  such  a  relief  from  the  affected  demureness 


NIEVANA.  339 

of  English  women.  Americans  were  growing  favorites 
everywhere  in  England;  so  much  so,  that  society 
papers  were  coming  to  the  defense  of  his  country 
women.  The  foreigner  was  subject  to  attack;  she  was 
called  bold,  intriguing,  immodest  to  a  degree  inconceiv- 
able to  the  home  maiden.  She — 

But  Laura  was  not  listening.  England  was  now  at 
her  elbow— the  steamer  was  entering  port.  Something 
—she  knew  not  what — made  everybody  inclined  to 
move  less  briskly  than  at  Dieppe.  The  passengers 
awaited  their  turn  in  a  more  orderly  manner.  But 
Laura  realized  more  intimately  that  she  was  in  -another 
country  when  the  final  guard  at  the  custom  house  took 
her  brusquely  by  the  arm  and  demanded  roughly: 
"Where's  your  mark?"  She  had  forgotten,  in  passing 
the  gate,  to  show  the  chalked  sign  on  her  satchel. 

But  better  evidence  were  the  stations  passed;  they 
were  tidy,  some  of  them  even  picturesque,  and  all  in 
the  midst  of  well-ordered,  garden-like  plots.  The  walls 
separating  the  towns  from  the  railway  tracks  were  high, 
solid  and  covered  with  ivy,  lending  an  air  at  once 
ornate  and  ancient.  Mrs.  Quincy  was  mute  from  the 
emotion  which  the  sight  of  the  country  traversed 
caused  her.  She  had  not  seen  England  since  her  girl- 
hood and  when  she  recognized  certain  landmarks  tears 
jetted  from  her  eyes.  To  Laura  the  contrast  between 
this  trip  and  the  ride  from  Havre  to  Paris  was  vivid. 
Here,  everything,  even  the  fields,  had  an  air  of  anti- 
quity. And  yet,  when  she  recalled  history,  France's 
civilization  antedated  that  of  England  by  several  cen- 
turies. Perhaps  it  was  due  to  the  atmosphere  which 
was  something  between  pale  and  gray  and  certainly 
was  heavy. 

They  were  whirled  past  buildings  always  vine  clad, 
that  looked  like  'castles,  but  which  Mrs.  Quincy  vowed 
were  hospitals  and  asylums.  The  air  thickened;  cot- 
tages and  mansions  became  numerous;  rows  of  houses 
of  identical  •architecture  appeared.  A  curve  of  the 
track  and  they  were  in  an  immensity  of  buildings  in 
and  around  which  mankind  swarmed;  buildings  low 
and  high,  squalid  and  splendid ;  mankind  miserable  and 


340  NIRVANA. 

happy,  noble  and  humble,  proud  and  abject.  Laura  saw 
this  in  a  glance  from  the  car  window,  and  as  the  train 
slackened  in  speed  the  sky  darkened ;  something  almost 
palpably  black  hung  over  the  city.  Laura  felt  pre- 
cisely as  she  did  when  she  saw  Chicago  for  the  first 
time;  it  was  the  same  feeling  of  depressed  awe,  of 
acute  malaise,  of  entering  a  monstrous  cavern  echoing 
with  noise,  the  difference  being  that  in  Chicago  the  roar 
was  harsh,  here  it  was  muffled.  The  train  stopped  for  a 
moment  in  a  spot  of  squalor.  Not  many  feet  away  a  huge 
factory,  low,  long,  dark,  sinister;  surrounding  it,  lep- 
rous-looking huts  as  hopeless  and  wretched  as  the  be- 
ings who  lived  there;  these  were  swarming  about 
dejectedly— the  factory  was  closed  either  for  lack  of 
orders  or  because  of  a  strike— apparently  as  terribly 
superfluous  in  the  world's  scheme  as  scrofula.  They 
were  nothing  but  rags,  dirt,  misery.  The  very  children 
— in  the  arms  of  mothers  young  in  years,  old  in  the 
experience  of  hunger — were  stamped  with  vice  and  star- 
vation. A  group  of  the  males  hung  about  the  forbid- 
ding station  of  this  abandoned  quarter.  Laura  heard 
voices  hoarse  and  dead.  The  grimy  vests  open,  the 
shirts  tattered,  disclosing  the  odious  flesh  of  animal- 
istic humanity.  Through  the  car  window  she  heard 
an  abusive  jargon  as  revolting  as  a  gush  from  a  sewer. 
She  turned  away;  it  was  impossible  to  look  longer 
at  such  foul  wretchedness. 

Two  minutes  later  the  train  traversed  quarters 
crowded  with  buildings  of  solidity  and  splendor,  where 
the  fleeting  glance  revealed  people  of  prosperous  ro- 
tundity and  healthful  rubicundity.  The  juxtaposition 
was  confounding.  But  suppression  seemed  to  prevail 
everywhere;  sullen  at  the  station  of  penury,  dignified 
elsewhere.  This  suppression,  this  almost  motionless 
activity,  was  elaborate  at  the  Central  depot  in  which 
the  locomotive  entered  silently  submissive,  its  steam 
subdued,  its  clang  subjugated. 

In  the  gigantic  depot,  lowering  and  somber,  serried 
along  the  limitless  platform  were  cabmen  mute  as  posts. 
The  clerk  from  Paris  beckoned  to  one  of  them.  He  gave 
the  address  of  the  hotel  in  Trafalgar  Square  which  he 


NIEVANA.  341 

had  recommended;  and  delighted  and  no  doubt  sur- 
prised at  the  warmth  and  sincerity  of  Laura's  thanks, 
he  disappeared  unceremoniously.  Laura  did  not  hear 
Mrs.  Quincy's  exclamations  of  reminiscence.  She  felt 
as  if  the  world  were  made  of  heavy,  orderly  streets, 
of  mutely  orderly  men  and  women— the  order  that  pro- 
ceeds from  rigid  laws.  In  Paris  she  could  see  heights, 
trees,  water ;  in  Paris  there  were  vistas,  gloriously  open 
spaces;  there  was  air,  a  feeling  of  freedom.  Here 
streets  and  streets  and  streets;  a  world  of  stone;  a 
world  regulated  by  machinery  which  was  not  less  op- 
pressive because  it  was  not  wholly  visible.  In  front  of 
her,  in  the  carriage,  the  law— in  the  form  of  a  placard — 
told  her  the  amount  which  the  coachman  may  exact. 
At  every  square  a  high  sign  instructed  the  driver  to 
drive  to  the  left.  Newspaper  vendors,  men  and  women, 
girls  and  boys,  bore  an  inscription  on  their  breasts  giv- 
ing the  names  of  the  journals  for  sale.  The  law  did  not 
permit  them  to  announce  their  wares.  A  universe  con- 
ducted by  silent  automata ;  silent  animation,  mute  dem- 
onstrations; a  city  that  seemed  to  have  absorbed  the 
whole  of  humanity  in  the  few  last  hours;  a  city,  in 
Laura's  first  impression,  of  depression  and  repression, 
of  contradiction  and  compulsion,  whose  citizens  had 
become  automatically  dutiful. 

After  miles  of  stone,  an  opening — of  stone.  In  the 
center  a  high  black  column  of  stone.  The  hackman 
stopped  at  one  of  the  buildings  in  the  opening.  He 
bowed  his  head  in  acknowledgment  of  the  fare  paid. 
A  red-faced,  red-liveried  lackey  took  Laura 's  hand  lug- 
gage without  a  word.  The  clerk  in  the  office  silently 
offered  a  pen  to  her.  When  she  had  indicated  the  ac- 
commodations required  he  nodded  "very  good"  and 
called  for  a  bell  boy.  A  handsome,  perfectly  mannered 
lad,  with  a  respectfully  modulated  voice  that  spoke  an 
English  of  soothing  enunciation,  led  the  way  to  the  lift, 
and  from  there,  after  devious  turns  and  bewildering 
combinations  of  marvelously  narrow  corridors,  opened 
a  midget  hallway  to  a  suite  that  elicited  exclamations 
of  pleasure  from  both  women.  The  rooms  fronted  the 
square;  they  were  roomy,  but  with  not  too  much  high 


342  NIRVANA. 

light  to  affect  their  home-like  quality;  they  contained 
every  essential  of  a  home  and  some  of  its  luxuries  and 
edifications,  including  a  large,  handsomely  bound  bible, 
a  church  directory,  and  a  theatre  guide.  The  bathroom 
was  as  spacious  as  an  alcove,  in  which  nothing  was 
omitted,  not  even  robes.  "They  are  a  home  people" 
Laura  thought,  "just  as  the  Parisians  are  children  olE 
the  air."  She  felt  that  she  would  wish  to  remain 
within  doors  while  in  England  to  enjoy  the  creature 
comforts  of  an  interior  which,  compared  with  the 
gloomy  out-door  life,  was  contrastingly  comforting. 

Ensconsed  in  a  low,  broad  chair,  her  mind  carried 
her  back  to  early  girlhood  when  she  had  read  Dickens 
at  home,  in  vacation  days.  As  she  had  thought  of 
Beaupassant  the  first  night  in  France,  so  Dickens  now 
occupied  her  thoughts.  She  pressed  the  electric  button 
once  and  when  the  natty  bell  boy  answered  she  asked 
if  it  were  possible  to  get  a  volume  of  Dickens;  "David 
Copperfield"  and  "Dombey  and  Son"  preferred. 

He    returned    with    the    "Old    Curiosity    Shop". 
American  guests,  he  said,  had  taken  the  specified  books 
from  the  library  earlier  in  the  day. 

She  read  of  Little  Nell  until  late.  She  slept  pro- 
foundly that  night  and  was  awakened  by  Mrs.  Quincy 
next  morning,  who  said  the  London  correspondent  of 
an  American  paper  had  sent  up  his  card,  and  at  her 
request  would  return.  He  oame  back  after  luncheon. 
A  magnificent  creature,  superb  of  carriage,  superbund- 
antly  healthy,  straight  as  a  post,  though  not  stiff.  He 
had  lived  in  New  York  but  was  London  born.  If  Miss 
Darnby  would  give  him  the  pleasure  he  would  like  to 
drive  about  an  hour  or  two ;  conduct  her  to  the  Abbey, 
to  Parliament.  A  most  agreeable  way  of  being  inter- 
viewed Laura  thought  in  accepting.  The  first  carriage 
in  the  long  line  of  vehicles  stationed  silently  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  thoroughfare  to  the  side  of  the  hotel  an- 
swered to  the  mute  motion  of  the  porter.  A  sloping 
street,  several  twists  and  turns  and  they  were  before  a 
moldy  and  bituminous  minster.  The  most  obstrusive 
objects  were  the  merry  sight-seers;  they  were  so  many 
and  so  gapingly  obvious  that  it  was  some  time  before 


NIRVANA.  343 

Laura  could  forget  her  worldly  cerements  and  give 
herself  wholly  to  the  impressiveness  of  the  interior. 
Even  then  she  was  forced  to  make  a  comparison  of  the 
grandeur  of  Notre  Dame  of  Paris,  and  found  tihe  Abbey 
wanting.  The  statues  and  sarcophagi  of  the  monarch- 
ial  nonentities,  of  forgotten  statesmen,  of  artists,  lit- 
erary and  otherwise,  whose  only  title  to  recognition 
was  their  ancientry,  crowded  and  dwarfed  the  meed 
of  tableted  and  statuary  praise  accorded  the  genuine 
English  souls  thus  represented.  There  was,  too,  some- 
thing harshly  incongruous  in  the  offer  of  a  sub-sexton 
to  show  the  tombs  of  kings  for  money ;  there  was  some- 
thing trade-like  in  the  call  for  services  in  one  part  of 
the  church  whilst  gaping  strangers  were  feeding  their 
curiosity  elsewhere;  something  painfully  business-like 
in  the  rou<tinist  who  went  through  the  forms  of  worship 
in  a  nasal,  mechanical  voice  and  with  mechanical  ges- 
tures. Laura  went  away  unedified,  unimpressed. 

Parliament,  if  not  more  impressive,  was  more  im- 
posing. It  had  a  sweep  of  the  river,  was  free  of  streets, 
had  a  magnificent  circle  of  air.  She  separated  from  the 
journalist  at  the  stairs,  English  rule  did  not  permit 
a  mixture  of  the  sexes  in  the  spectators'  gallery.  She 
was  taken  up  to  a  small,  stuffy,  loft,  screened  from 
side  to  side,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  made  for  de- 
classed creatures,  for  Turkish  women  or  for  that  con- 
ception of  women  as  revealed  by  early  English  chroni- 
cles. She  saw  very  fat  and  healthy  and  very  thin 
and  unhealthy  men  lounging  on  benches;  some  were 
asleep,  many  were  not  listening  to  a  tall  and  meaty, 
bald  and  bearded  man,  who  in  a  fleshy  voice  was 
descanting  upon  the  maltreatment  of  mine  laborers.  He 
had  a  mass  of  documents  before  him  from  which  he 
read  desultorily.  His  discourse  was  jerky,  his  words 
unspontaneous,  his  effort  laborious,  his  manner  uncon- 
vincing. "That  was  Wilke  you  heard,"  said  the  cor- 
respondent when  she  came  down.  "A  curious  com- 
pound, that  fellow.  Very  rich,  he  has  made  it  a  spec- 
ialty in  Parliament  to  plead  for  workman,  since  he  was 
involved  in  a  malodorous  social  scandal,  that  is.  He  is 
quick  to  second  any  motion  of  morality  which  Smith 


344  NIRVANA. 

introduces.  But  his  trouble  is  that  he  throws  a  mass 
of  undigested  and  undigestible  stuff  at  the  house.  He 
has  two  secretaries  who  do  nothing  but  delve  for  fig- 
ures, which  he  cannot,  or  leastwise,  does  not  assimi- 
late. Perhaps  he  is  sincere,  but  the  role  of  protector 
of  the  masses  does  not  fit  him.  He  should  leave  that 
to  Burns." 

He  ushered  her  out  on  a  wide  terrace.  It  was  a 
restful  sight.  A  broad  river  flowed  there  and  its 
breadth  gave  a  considerable  view  of  the  lead-hued  city. 
Parliament,  Laura  thought,  was  in  session  qn  the  ter- 
race, not  in  the  house.  The  tables  from  end  to  end 
were  occupied.  Laura  was  introduced  to  a  few  of  the 
occupants;  of  one,  a  member  from  Scotland,  she  asked 
why  they  were  out  there  and  not  in  the  house.  He 
answered  they  were  conservatives  who  could  see  noth- 
ing practical  in  Wilke.  The  Scotchman,  in  answering, 
smiled  shrewdly  with  his  eyes.  Of  a  sudden  there  was 
a  mild  commotion  along  the  line  of  tea  drinkers ;  there 
entered,  with  two  scrawny  women,  a  pursy  fellow  of 
huge  trunk  and  short  legs;  heavy,  florid  face  and  chop 
whiskered— a  vivid  resemblance  to  the  John  Bull  as 
typified  by  cartoonists.  He  elicited  deferential  bows 
from  everybody.  "That,"  whispered  the  Scotch  mem- 
ber, in  a  tone  in  which  deep  consideration  penetrated, 
"is  Papsop,  of  Papsop's  Ale,  you  know.  He's  the  richest 
brewer  in  the  country. ' ' 

She  did  not  know  and  she  did  not  care.  The  men's 
wives  interested  her,  in  their  strange  contrast  to  the 
other  women  she  had  seen  and  known.  They  were  all 
very  tall  or  very  small;  all  positively  ill-gowned,  all 
absolutely  unprepossessing.  They  were  either  exceed- 
ingly thin  or  grossly  fait.  The  thin  were  scrawny, 
awkward,  angular;  the  fat  puffy,  waddling.  Their 
gowns  in  most  part  were  caricatures  in  fit  and  hues. 
"How  can  men  marry  such  women?"  Laura  asked  her- 
self. "How  is  it  possible  to  love  them?  Why,  indeed, 
are  they  born  ? ' ' 

After  this  reflection  she  was  relieved  when  the 
Scotch  member  invited  her  to  go  below.  On  the  way 
down  he  remarked  that  the  house  was  built  of  stone 


NIEVANA.  345 

quarried  in  France.  At  the  first  descent  he  pointed 
where  an  attempt  had  been  made  to  destroy  Parliament 
with  dynamite ;  the  spot  where  Lords  so  and  so  had  been 
tried.  It  was  all  bare,  like  an  immense  cell.  Further 
down  there  was  something  to  attract.  A  chapel;  pious 
members  of  Parliament  in  prolonged  sessions  cover- 
ing Sundays  came  down  there  on  the  Sabbath  to  wor- 
ship. An  altar  cloth,  rich,  heavy,  a  magnificent  piece 
in  which  gold  and  black  predominated,  drew  Laura. 
As  she  felt  it,  the  member  told  her  it  had  been  made 
by  Queen  Elizabeth.  On  hearing  the  name  of  the  maker, 
Laura  dropped  it.  She  hated  Elizabeth  for  her  treat- 
ment of  Marie  Stuart  (who  from  early  childhood  had 
engaged  Laura's  sympathy),  for  her  stealth  and  hypoc- 
risy in  love  affairs. 

The  same  feeling  of  resentment  came  over  her  when 
she  stood  before  the  tomb  of  "Arthur,  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington" in  St.  Paul's,  that  gloomy  house  of  prayer. 
"Arthur  the  Little",  Laura  thought,  "whom  fortune  in 
a  moment  of  blindness  ihad  allowed  to  conquer  Napoleon 
the  Great." 

Coming  out  she  asked  the  correspondent  to  dismiss 
the  carriage,  as  she  wished  to  walk  back. 

The  wings  of  dusk  were  spreading  over  the  huge 
city  and  it  had  seemed  that  their  shadows  subdued  the 
more  the  muffled  roar  of  the  impassively  animated 
streets.  The  vehicles  in  the  roadway  and  the  leisurely 
active  throng  on  the  curb  thickened.  The  people 
seemed  voiceless;  their  eyes  seemed  to  do  the  duty  of 
their  voice ;  they  looked  -their  thoughts  and  these  ap- 
peared to  be  cheerless.  The  pervading  expression  was 
seriousness  of  variant  shades;  canine  determination; 
despondency,  savagery,  brutish  stupidity,  philosophical 
gravity  and  thoughtfulness.  Two  painted  women  in 
garish  gowns  passed.  One  of  them  laughed.  The 
laughter  was  harrowing.  A  calibanistic  creature  with 
yellow  eyes  leered  at  Laura  in  passing.  Laura  shud- 
dered. Those  eyes  were  horribly  bestial;  they  showed 
a  being  in  whom  lurked  rapine  and  murder. 

A  gentle  turn  and  Laura  and  the  correspondent  were 
in  a  lane  of  bookstalls.  "Fleet  Street,"  uttered  her 


346  NTBVANA. 

companion.  She  saw  faces  poring  over  books,  that 
swelled  her  heart.  Pale  faces  mostly,  young  and  old, 
but  all  lit  up  by  the  divine  spark  of  superior  intelli- 
gence. The  name,  Fleet  Street,  crowded  Laura's  mem- 
ory with  spirit  stirring  and  exalted  thoughts.  Now  she 
loved  England.  She  remembered  the  men  that  kept 
awake  the  finest  parts  of  the  Nation's  soul,  that  gave 
to  the  country  better  aims  than  conquest  of  trade  and 
wiho  withstood  the  sovereignty  of  Mammon  nobly. 
They  were  the  vanguards  of  the  march  of  mind  in  Great 
Britain,  who,  amid  the  temptations  and  sorrows,  the 
cruel  and  wounding  subordination  of  pure  intellectual- 
ity to  material  power,  traveled  their  own  way  in  calm 
majesty. 

Another  turn:  "Strand,"  said  the  correspondent. 
The  crowd  though  denser  was  more  sullen.  Now  and 
again  it  uttered  oaths.  One  fellow,  whose  counten- 
ance was  so  deeply  branded  by  depravity  that  Laura 
could  not  withhold  a  stare,  slhouted:  "What  in  hell 
are  you  looking  at?" 

And  before  the  correspondent  could  turn  on  him 
he  had  slunk  in  the  moving,  grimy  mass.  Laura  asked 
him  why  the  monumental  buildings  looked  so  much 
older  than  in  Paris,  though  those  of  the  French  capital 
antedated  London's  by  centuries. 

"It  is  the  climate.  The  air  is  purer  in  France;  it 
is  less  humid ;  they  have  more  sunshine  there. ' ' 

"That  also  may  account  for  the  difference  in  the 
people,"  Laura  thought. 

They  were  now  at  the  embankment,  'and  instantly 
Laura  got  sight  of  the  Thames,  which  appeared  slow 
and  squalid  here,  Dickens'  "Our  Mutual  Friend"  came 
to  mind.  The  army  of  characters  in  the  novel  passed 
by  her  mind's  eye,  and  then  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  witnessed  a  panoramic  illustration  of  Dickens' 
pages  since  she  had  left  Fleet  Street.  Small  crafts, 
like  black  swollen  beetles,  puffed  and  panted  up  and 
down  the  stream.  On  both  shores  were  a  forest  of  masts 
with  a  background  of  smoked  or  reeking  walls  whose 
dull  windows  but  stressed  the  smoke  and  reek  of  the 
wihole.  There  were  penetrating  scents  of  Oriental  per- 


NIRVANA.  347 

fumes;  and  revolting  smells  of  Occidental  filth;  odors 
of  hides  and  spices,  of  fresh,  clean  timber,  of  decaying 
vegetables  and  nameless  putrefactions.  Everybody 
walked  slowly,  morosely,  sullenly.  Even  a  pair  of 
lovers,  with  arms  about  waists,  were  affected  by  the 
gloom ;  they  moved  heavily  with  an  air  of  depression. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I  had  rather  ride  to  the  hotel, 
after  all, ' '  requested  Laura. 

She  was  happy  to  be  back  to  those  home  quarters. 
The  closing  of  the  door  seemed  a  change  to  a  world  of 
physical  well-being  and  mental  serenity.  But  once  out 
again,  the  next  morning,  on  the  way  to  the  station  in 
a  densely  yellow  fog,  the  bodily  heaviness  and  spiritual 
dejection  of  the  day  before  eame  back  with  double  em- 
phasis. She  would  be  out  of  London;  she  was  fever- 
ishly impatient  to  be  away,  away!  Yet  in  this  feverish 
desire  to  be  out  of  London,  to  detach  herself  from 
earth,  to  escape  from  her  dejection,  from  herself,  there 
was  something  of  physical  dehortation,  something  of 
instinctive  recoil,  of  purely  bodily  premonition.  And 
while  the  train  was  dashing  toward  the  seaport,  this 
singular  sensation  was  accompanied  by  a  recurrence 
of  spiritual  phenomena;  again  it  seemed  tha/t  all  ahe 
had  done  and  felt  since  morning  she  had  done  and  felt 
before,  a  long  time  ago,  in  another  existence,  or  per- 
haps, in  a  dream;  in  slightly  different  circumstances, 
but  in  essentially  similar  conditions;  the  little  girl  in 
the  next  seat  who  was  staring  with  wondering  eyes 
at  the  fleeting  landscape,  Laura  had  seen  before.  The 
mother's  voice,  with  its  caressing  intonations,  appeared 
singularly  familiar  to  Laura 's  ears.  The  tall  conductor 
with  the  kindly  smile ;  the  American  who  laughed  at  an 
Englishman's  slip  in  English;  the  bearded  man  who 
said  in  a  tone  clearly  aibove  tihe  clang  of  the  rushing 
train:  "England  is  the  land  of  the  puritan  and  hypo- 
crite:" the  glimpse  of  the  scrupulously  cultivated 
fields;  the  whitish  atmosphere;  the  intense  green  of 
the  trees  clustered  on  low,  short  and  infrequent  hills; 
the  penetrancy  of  the  grassy  odor  when  the  train 
skirted  a  concave  and  heavily  bedewed  and  heavily 
grown  meadow— all  had  been  known  to  Laura's  senses 


348  NIRVANA. 

in  time  long  past,  in  a  different  state  of  existence  it 
seemed. 

Those  large  blond  officers— that  determined- jawed 
captain — and  those  little,  dark,  thin,  nervous  and  vil- 
lainous-looking sailors,  reptile-looking  fellows  who 
might  have  been  picked  up  on  either  shore  of  the  Medi- 
terranean; that  ponderous  steamer,  which  left  her 
dock  without  a  cheer  in  almost  ominous  silence,  con- 
secrated only  by  Mrs.  Quincy's  tears— Laura  had  seen) 
all  this  before.  Witnessed  before,  also,  had  been  the» 
greeting  just  out  of  the  harbor  from  a  smaller  boat  o! 
the  same  line  coming  from  America.  The  incoming 
craft  bounded  in  gayly.  The  sight  of  land  had  made 
its  passengers  exultant ;  they  cheered  the  out-going  ship 
wildly — flags  and  handkerchiefs  fluttered  gayly;  hats 
and  canes  flew  in  the  air.  But  the  only  response  from 
the  departing  sail  was  the  unrolling  of  a  black  crepe 
of  smoke— as  if  the  ship  had  been  cast  off  by  the  earth 
and  had  gone  in  mourning. 

Tttie  passengers  had  the  air  of  mourners.  Many 
were  moody;  some  wore  an  air  of  indifference;  some 
of  chagrin;  some  of  detestation;  a  few  of  downright 
desolation;  all  but  one,  Laura  imagined,  were  shadow- 
vested  by  apprehension.  That  one  was  a  priest;  a 
young  man  with  the  dark  hair,  blue  eyes,  handsome, 
genial  countenance  and  the  open  erect  bearing  of  an 
Irishman.  He  neither  avoided  nor  courted  recogni- 
tion. Several  (Catholics)  lifted  their  hats  to  him. 
With  these  he  at  once  became  acquainted,  pacing  the 
deck  with  them  directly  the  ship  was  out  of  the  harbor, 
at  dusk.  It  was  then  that  Laura's  nerves  created  un- 
cheerful  reflections.  A  feeling  of  deep  solemnity  en- 
veloped her.  She  realized  more  intensely  than  when 
leaving  New  York  that  she  had  left  safety — the  shore 
— to  spend  a  week  of  uncertainty  upon  a  perilous  salty 
plain,  the  epiderm  of  an  abyss  that  covers  worlds  of 
lost  lives  and  vessels;  realized  that  she  was  separated 
from  a  turbulent  chiasm  by  a  plank  only.  She  looked 
out  at  the  rolling  water  which  seemed  to  turn  blacker 
with  every  knot;  never  had  she  so  intimately  felt  the 


NIRVANA.  349 

narrow  and  quick  transition  between  life  and  death. 
Life  was  represented  >by  the  ship,  an  almost  infinitesi- 
mal speck,  seemingly  afloat  by  the  grace  of  death, 
which  was  represented  by  the  omnipotent  and  om- 
nipresent ocean.  Her  strange  malaise  impelled  her  to 
go  to  the  salon.  On  the  way  she  went  aft,  and  looking 
below  she  saw  a  group  of  sailors  playing  at  some  sort 
of  a  game.  They— underhand-looking  knaves  with 
shifty  eyes— were  jabbering  in  an  unknown  tongue 
and  gesticulating  violently.  Surrounding  them  were 
emigrants— apparently  of  the  same  race— dirty,  seedy, 
who  looked  horribly  predatory  with  their  carniverous 
jaws  and  convex  noses.  Compared  with  that  sight  the 
sea  was  magic.  Laura  hurried  along  with  a  feeling 
that  the  steamer  was  full  of  reptiles. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  salon  she  started  back. 
Directly  across,  facing  the  door,  was  a  broad  stair- 
way. On  either  side  were  caryatides  of  ebony,  melan- 
choly-visa ged,  who  held  up  coils  of  electric  lights  in 
the  shape  of  snakes.  The  vast  parlor  was  quite  de- 
serted. Only  in  the  corner  was  there  a  semblance  of 
life.  There  a  long-haired,  narrow-backed  individual 
sat  at  a  piano,  emitting  wildly  weird  sounds  to  which 
a  ring  of  boys  and  girls  danced.  To  Laura  they  seemed 
a  wild  saraband  of  dancing  shadows.  She  crossed  the 
salon  in  feverish  haste  and  in  again  coming  into  the 
air  her  teeth  chattered  violently.  Before  she  turned 
toward  her  cabin  she  caught  sight  of  the  moon  back 
of  a  maze  of  torn,  smoky  clouds,  rushing  backward 
over  the  sky.  It  seemed -to  her  that  the  universe  was 
permeated  with  awe  and  mystery. 

Mrs.  Quancy  was  already  asleep.  "Even  she  does 
not  bear  me  company,"  Laura  murmured.  "I'll  try 
to  forget  myself  in  the  same  way."  While  disrobing 
she  thought  she  heard  cannonading.  She  opened  the 
port  hole.  The  sea  hissed.  The  night  moaned,  and 
there  was  a  continuous  loud  tremor  as  of  incessant  sobs, 
accompanied  by  something  which  sounded  like  drums 
beating  afar  off.  Then  again,  shrieks  passed  through 
the  air,  followed  by  half-voiced  roars,  as  if  Neptune 


350  NIEVANA. 

held  the  waves  in  semi-restraint.  She  closed  the  globu- 
lar window,  for  the  sea  sounds  heightened  her  enfev- 
ered  state.  Once  between  the  covers,  in  a  reclining 
position,  partial  relief  came.  The  organic  throbs  of  the 
engines  disturbed  her  somewhat,  but  they  were  soon 
drowned  by  dull  blows  which  made  the  steamer 
tremble.  At  times  it  seemed  to  Laura  that  the  ship 
soared  up  as  if  it  were  jumping  to  the  skies  and  then 
fell  through  a  void ;  it  plunged  and  heaved  alternately 
for  what  appeared  to  be  hours.  But  gradually  the 
shrieks,  the  roars,  the  drum-like  noises  and  the  tre- 
mendous rocking  subsided.  The  organic  throbs  re- 
curred; to  those  mechanical  pulse  beats  Laura  finally 
sank  to  troubled  slumber. 

At  the  hotel  on  the  South  Side  of  Chicago,  where 
Laura  had  lived,  tihere  was  a  fire  signal.  Laura  had 
heard  it  tested  one  morning;  a  dreadful  dissonance  of 
distress,  of  weirdness,  of  warning.  She  dreamed  she 
was  in  the  hotel,  in  the  room  she  ihad  once  occupied, 
lying  on  the  bed.  She  heard  a  thunder  of  feet  in  the 
corridor  as  of  an  escaping  host.  Her  mother  was  at 
the  door  beseeching  her  to  rise;  and  all  the  while, 
above  her  mother's  voice  and  the  trooping  feet,  were 
the  uncanny  sounds  of  the  fire  signal.  She  could  not 
move.  An  invisible  power  rendered  her  helpless. 

In  this  seeming  struggle  to  escape  death  she  awoke 
to  a  prolonged  moaning  sound,  a  dreadfully  distressed 
appeal.  She  fancied  she  must  still  be  dreaming,  but  she 
recognized  the  cabin  and  heard  tlie  constitutional  throb 
of  the  engines.  It  was  dark  within;  yet  a  glance  at 
the  port  window  told  it  was  no  longer  black  night  with- 
out, although  the  air  appeared  veiled.  She  felt  for  her 
watch,  turned  toward  the  clouded  ligiht  and  saw  it 
was  barely  half  past  four  o'clock.  That  uncomfort- 
able feeling  on  board  ship  of  the  moments  which  pre- 
cede the  dawn,  and  that  inheres  in  those  of  the  strong- 
est nerves  even,  was  stressed  by  a  mournful  sound  from 
above.  She  felt  an  icy  humidity  in  the  air  and  the 
physical  shiver  was  concomitant  with  a  vague  dread  of 
a  nameless  danger.  She  felt  weak  bodily  and  mentally ; 


NIRVANA.  351 

her  mind  seemed  light,  loose,  undirigible;  her  body 
heavy,  incapable  of  effort.  Phantoms,  unnamable  ter- 
rors seemed,  in  passing  to  and  fro,  to  touch  her  with 
their  cold,  bat-like  wings.  She  thought  of  dead  friends 
and  she  recalled  having  read  somewhere  that  it  was  in 
the  early  morn  that  invalids  who  had  struggled  to  live 
lost  heart  and  died.  With  wihat  was  like  a  supreme 
effort  to  her  she  rose.  Getting  into  a  morning  wrapper 
hastily  she  unlatched  the  window.  For  a  few  moments 
she  could  see  nothing ;  a  lead-colored  fog  had  gathered 
up  from  the  deep,  that  prevented  her  at  first  from 
seeing  the  high,  tumultuous  and  deadly  leaden  waves. 
Even  while  she  looked  upon  the  turbulent  and  partly 
obscured  waters,  the  scene  turned  to  ghastly  gray,  the 
mist  became  transparent;  the  savagery  of  the  waters 
was  alarmingly  definite.  As  she  was  about  to  close  the 
port-hole  she  heard,  as  if  in  response  to  the  lugubrious 
fog-horn,  a  moan-like  whistle  that  seemed  to  be  near. 
Both  noises  were  now  simultaneous.  Suddenly,  as  if 
it  had  risen  from  the  wild  waves,  Laura  saw  a  ship  in 
the  dissolving  mist.  It  was  only  a  few  yards  away  and 
was  coming  directly  toward  her.  In  instinctive  alarm 
Laura  closed  the  porthole. 

Both  signals  became  mute.  There  was  tHe  awful 
stillness  which  precedes  a  catastrophe,  that  mysterious 
silence  of  a  moment  before  the  tragically  inevitable. 
A  thundering  crash ;  a  grating,  grinding  noise  all  along 
the  steamer's  keel.  The  craft  seemed  to  stagger  under 
a  mortal  shock  as  if  she  had  been  struck  and  crushed 
on  a  rock.  Mrs.  Quincy,  thrown  against  the  partition, 
awoke  in  fright.  Seeing  her  companion  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  cabin  white,  dumb,  motionless,  she 
screamed.  Laura's  breath  was  checked,  while  her  brain 
and  heart  together  were  pierced  as  with  daggers  by 
panic-stricken  sounds.  There  was  a  rush  of  feet,  of 
cries,  of  yells. 

Mrs.  Quincy  leaped  for  the  door.  Laura  as  in- 
stinctively followed.  Precipitate  forms,  some  uttering 
hoarse  roars,  others  scre-aming,  were  rushing  to  the 
stairway  in  a  break-neck  way.  At  the  broad  stairs 


352  NIEVANA. 

there  was  a  struggle  as  of  panic-stricken  cattle ;  a  child 
was  jostled  out  of  its  mother's  arms,  a  tall,  thin, 
bearded  fellow  with  staring  eyes,  tripped  a  woman  and 
trampled  upon  another  in  his  frenzied  drive  to  the 
top.  Laura  hardly  knew  how  she  reached  the  main 
deck.  Once  there,  her  senses  were  assailed  with  a 
mind-arresting  madness.  Cleaving  the  terrible  roar  of 
the  sea  were  the  mad  shouts  of  the  ship's  officers — the 
captain  on  the  bridge  was  yelling  through  a  trumpet — 
the  hysterical  shrieks  of  women  in  their  nightgowns 
and  the  frantic  bellowing  of  half-nude  men  who  were 
stumbling  and  crushing  and  running  to  and  fro,  wholly 
distracted,  absolutely  ungovernable.  Near  Laura  were 
two  officers,  pistols  in  'hand,  shouting  orders  to  groups 
of  fiercely  industrious  sailors  toiling  like  demons  for 
the  freeing  of  life  boats,  now  groveling  on  all  fours, 
now  standing  up  in  despair,  tugging,  pushing,  snarling 
at  each  other  venomously,  apparently  ready  to  kill  and 
only  kept  from  flying  at  each  other's  throats  by  the 
weapons  leveled  at  them. 

Sheer  helplessness  overcame  Laura;  but  with  the 
feeling  of  physical  desertion  her  faculties,  spiritualized, 
returned.  The  elemental  outburst  around  her  she  now 
saw  in  a  clarified,  intensified  light;  above,  the  clouds 
were  rushing  at  each  other  with  black  velocity.  The 
horizon  seemed  to  have  come  on  all  sides  within  arm's 
length  of  the  steamer,  whose  stern  was  lowering.  In 
that  narrow  circle  furious  seas  leaped  in,  struck  and 
leaped  out;  a  lull  of  a  second  and  then  a  big  foaming 
sea  came  out  of  the  whitish  mist;  it  made  for  the 
wounded  ship,  roaring  wildly  as  a  madman  with  an  ax  ; 
then  a  sudden  swing  of  the  dark  sky  line ;  the  breath- 
less tilt  up  of  the  vast  plain  of  the  waters ;  the  swift, 
still  rise,  the  brutal  fling,  the  rasp  of  the  albyss,  the  dark 
fighting  clouds  closing  over  her  head.  A  momentary 
pause  and  another  mountain  of  water  dashed  itself 
against  the  groaning  Ship. 

The  mountain  became  a  canyon  and  the  ship  for 
an  instant  seemed  to  be  staggering  in  the  depths  be- 
tween two  volcanic  heights  of  green  glass  topped  with 


NIRVANA.  353 

snow.  Penetrating  the  din,  Laura  heard  a  shot.  A 
body,  with  a  stream  of  blood  gushing  from  the  neck, 
fell  at  her  feet.  Then  a  succession  of  shots.  A  bell 
rang  whose  knell  was  death-like.  Men  ran  into  each 
other  as  if  they  had  been  stone  blind.  A  reeling  sailor, 
heavy,  squat,  leering,  flung  a  lantern  into  an  officer's 
face.  Supernaturally  agonized  voices  were  crying: 
"My  God,  let  me  in— let  me  in!  Save  me!  For  God's 
sake  let  me  in!"  "I'll  give  you  ten  thousand  dollars 
for  a  place;  at  least  let  my  children  in!" 

The  responses  were  "Get  back  there!  Get  back! 
Get  back!  Will  you  let  go,  damn  you!"  One  woman 
was  flung  to  the  other  side  of  the  ship;  another  was 
struck  in  the  face  and  fell,  bleeding,  to  the  deck.  A 
horde  of  black  grimy  emigrants  joined  the  maddened 
sailors  in  the  inhuman  struggle  for  the  boats.  A  dozen 
drew  knives  and  fought  their  way  to  a  place.  As  the 
boats  were  lowered,  without  a  woman  or  child  in  them, 
there  was  a  stampede  to  the  other  end,  where  Laura 
saw  a  similar  struggle  was  going  on  for  the  life  pre- 
servers. She  turned  to  follow,  mechanically,  and  quite 
calm,  when  a  firm  voice  asked  her:  "My  daughter,  are 
you  a  Catholic?"  And,  without  awaiting  her  reply, 
the  priest  raised  his  hands  and  uttered  a  benison.  He 
repeated  this,  going  quickly  from  men  and  women,  who 
in  their  life  preservers  were  jumping  about  like  caged 
beasts.  Looking  up,  Laura  saw  the  megaphone  drop 
from  the  captain's  hand;  he  fell  forward  as  the  ship 
gave  a  list  on  the  starboard  side,  turning,  bow  up. 
Amidst  a  rush  of  air  and  water,  Laura  heard  a  fearful 
roar,  as  if  it  had  issued  from  the  jagged  jaw  of  a 
monster. 

An  instant  later  the  ship  had  disappeared  and  Laura 
found  herself  in  the  center  of  another  madness.  Top- 
ping the  ferocious  waves  and  in  the  quickly  changing 
watery  valleys  were  bodies  and  boats  and  rafts  and 
hundreds  of  inanimate  objects.  Piercing  the  mugiency 
of  the  maddened  elements  were  wild  yells,  awful  ap- 
peals, harrowing  moans  and  the  lacerating  laughter  of 
the  suddenly  demented. 


354  NIRVANA. 

With  succeeding  seconds  Laura's  ears  became 
deafer  to  the  agonizing  sounds  of  extinguishing  human- 
ity ;  she  still  saw  women  struck  on  the  heads  with  oars, 
or  stabbed  in  the  shoulder  as  in  final  desperation  they 
had  clutched  to  loaded  boats  and  rafts.  Some  of  the 
blood  of  the  knifed  stragglers  dashed  into  her  face 
and  imparted  a  terror  of  death;  it  acted  as  an  ele- 
mental revolt  of  her  young  life.  She  would  not  die; 
she  must  not  die.  The  pristine  instinct  rebelled  against 
dissolution.  She— from  early  girlhood  a  good  swimmer 
— swam  toward  the  nearest  boat.  Though  she  saw  the 
distance  widening  she  continued  'her  strokes  desper- 
ately. Something  in  a  high  wave— it  felt  like  a  hammer 
— struck  her  and  sent  her  under  the  waters  for  a 
moment;  it  was  one  >of  the  many  pieces  of  wreckage 
and  it  weakened  her  exhausting  strength.  She  was 
gasping  despairingly  when  a  flabby  object  grazed  her ; 
it  was  the  fleshy,  bloated  body  of  a  bald,  middle-aged 
man.  The  fugitive  contact  with  the  ugly  corpse 
thrilled  her  grewsomely;  the  thought  that  she  would 
be  like  that  inspired  her  to  a  crazed  effort  to  save  her- 
self. 

But  as  the  glassy  walls  fell  against  her  again  and 
again  with,  roaring  rushes,  her  breath  shortened  and 
her  arms  refused  their  office.  She  could  not  go  on. 
Her  physical  power  was  undone  and  her  nerves  com- 
municated the  intelligence  to  her  brain. 

As  her  muscles  relaxed  she  had  a  momentary  glimpse 
of  Westminster  Abbey;  she  saw  the  interior  of  Notre 
Dame  and  Beaupassant  was  there  awaiting  her.  When 
she  spoke,  he  answered  in  a  voice  that  was  Darnby's. 
Darnby  lifted  her  and  she  found  herself  at  home.  Her 
mother  advised  'her  to  go  to  the  Holy  Name  Cathedral 
in  Chicago.  Protony  was  at  the  door  of  the  church, 
but  she  passed  him  and  went  directly  to  the  altar.  She 
heard  music  and  prayers.  Looking  up  she  saw  the 
church  was  roofless.  Christ's  blood  was  streaming  in 
the  firmament. 

In  that  supplicative  impulsion  toward  her  Redeemer 
there  was  a  sudden  flash  of  the  dying  flame,  her 


NIRVANA. 


355 


strength  seemed  ten-fold,  her  faculties  aflame.  It  was 
the  ultimate  gleam.  Soon  her  eyes  turned  upward  and 
inward,  sinking  gradually  into  their  sockets.  The 
mouth,  now  wide  open,  called  for  air  and  received 
gushes  of  water.  As  a  hill  of  liquid  green  engulfed 
her  for  the  last  time  the  light  was  extinguished. 


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